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THE  LADY  OF   LYONS 


OR 


LOVE   AND   PRIDE 

BY 

EDWARD    BULWER-LYTTON 


EDITED    WITH    NOTES 

By  CALVIN  S.  BROWN 


[From  the  Editor's  "Later  English  Drama"] 


NEW    YORK 

A.  S.  BARNES   AND    COMPANY 

1907 


Copyright,  1898, 
By  A.  S.  Barnes  &  Ca 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTE. 


Two  of  the  most  successful  dramas  of  the  century  have  been 
The  Lady  of  Lyons  (183S)  and  Richelieu  (1S39).  Their  au- 
thor, Edward  Bulwer-Lytton,  novelist,  poet,  dramatist,  politi- 
cian, and  orator,  was  graduated  at  Cambridge,  returned  to 
Parliament,  elected  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow, 
made  colonial  secretary,  and  raised  to  the  peerage.  He  is  best 
known  as  a  writer  of  fiction,  having  published  in  all  more  than 
twenty  novels.  The  Lady  of  Lyons  was  produced  anonymously 
after  Bulwer's  first  play  had  failed,  and  his  name  was  not  an- 
nounced until  the  play  had  established  itself  in  public  favor  on 
its  own  merits.  The  language  inclines  to  the  bombastic  and 
the  plot  is  extravagantly  improbable.  Richelieu  contains  some 
good  work  and  makes  a  fine  spectacle  on  the  stage,  but  it  is 
unequal  and  lacking  in  continuous  interest.  The  plot  is  patched 
up  out  of  historical  events  extending  over  a  period  of  sixteen 
years  and  crowded  into  one  great  conspiracy  requiring  only 
four  days  for  its  development.  Money  (1840),  a  comedy  by  the 
same  author,  is  also  still  seen  on  the  stage. 


87053? 


THE   LADY   OF   LYONS; 

OR, 

LOVE   AND    PRIDE. 
A  Play 

By  EDWARD   BULWER-LYTTON. 


TO 

THE    AUTHOR    OF    "ION," 

whose  genius  and  example  have  alike  contributed 
towards  the  regeneration  of 

The  National  Drama, 
THIS    PLAY   IS    INSCRIBED. 


3    4 


PREFACE. 


An  indistinct  recollection  of  the  very  pretty  little  tale,  called 
The  Bellows-Mender}  suggested  the  plot  of  this  Drama.  The 
incidents  are,  however,  greatly  altered  from  those  in  the  tale, 
and  the  characters  entirely  re-cast. 

Having  long  had  a  wish  to  illustrate  certain  periods  of  the 
French  history,  so,  in  the  selection  of  the  date  in  which  the 
scenes  of  this  play  are  laid,   I   saw  that  the  era  of  the  Re7 
public  was  that   in  which  the  incidents  were  rendered  most    ' 
probable,  in  which  the  probationary  career  of  the  hero  could    • 
well  be  made  sufficiently  rapid  for  dramatic  effect,  and  in  which  1 
the  character  of  the  time  itself  was  depicted  by  the  agencies 
necessary  to  the  conduct  of  the  narrative.     For  during  the  early" 
years  of  the  first  and  most  brilliant  successes  of  the   French 
Republic,  in  the  general  ferment  of  society,  and  the  brief  equali- 
zation of  ranks,  Claude's  high-placed  love,  his  ardent  feelings, 
his  unsettled  principles  (the  struggle  between  which  makes  the 
passion  of  this  drama),  his  ambition,  and  his  career,  were  phe- 
nomena that  characterized  the  age,  and  in  which  the  spirit  of 
the  nation  went  along  with  the  extravagance  of  the  individual. 

The  play  itself  was  composed  with  a  twofold  object.  In  the 
first  place,  sympathizing  with  the  enterprise  of  Mr.  Macready, 
as  Manager  of  Covent  Garden,  and  believing  that  many  of  the 
higher  interests  of  the  Drama  were  involved  in  the  success  or 
failure  of  an  enterprise  equally  hazardous  and  disinterested,  I 
felt,  if  I  may  so  presume  to  express  myself,  something  of  the 
Brotherhood  of  Art ;  and  it  was  only  for  Mr.  Macready  to  think 
it  possible  that  I  might  serve  him  in  order  to  induce  me  to  make 
the  attempt. 


1  In  the  original  preface,  which  was  much  longer  than  the  present  one,  this 
title  stood  Pcrouse,  or  the  Bellows-Mender.  I  know  nothing  fiwther  of  the 
tale. 

5 


378  BULWER-LYTTON.  [pref. 

Secondly,  in  that  attempt  I  was  mainly  anxious  to  sec  whether 
or  not,  after  the  comparative  failure  on  the  stage  of  The  Duchess 
de  la  Valliere,  certain  critics  had  truly  declared  that  it  was  not 
in  my  power  to  attain  the  art  of  dramatic  construction  and 
theatrical  effect.  I  felt,  indeed,  that  it  was  in  this  that  a 
writer,  accustomed  to  the  narrative  class  of  composition,  would 
have  the  most  both  to  learn  and  «;/learn.  Accordingly,  it  was 
to  the  development  of  the  plot  and  the  arrangement  of  the 
incidents  that  I  directed  my  chief  attention;  —  and  I  sought  to 
throw  whatever  belongs  to  poetry  less  into  the  diction  and  the 
"felicity  of  words"  than  into  the  construction  of  the  story, 
the  creation  of  the  characters,  and  the  spirit  of  the  pervading 
sentiment. 

The  authorship  of  the  play  was  neither  avowed  nor  suspected 
until  the  play  had  established  itself  in  public  favour.  The 
announcement  of  my  name  was  the  signal  for  attacks,  chiefly 
political,  to  which  it  is  now  needless  to  refer.  When  a  work 
has  outlived  for  some  time  the  earlier  hostilities  of  criticism, 
there  comes  a  new  race  of  critics  to  which  a  writer  may,  for  the 
most  part,  calmly  trust  for  a  fair  consideration,  whether  of  the 
faults  or  the  merits  of  his  performance. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

[AS    ORIGINALLY    ACTED   AT   COVENT    GARDEN    IN    1S38.] 

Beauseant,    a    rich    gentleman     of\ 

Lyons,  in  love  with,  and  refused  >  Mr.  Elton. 

by,  Pauline  Deschappelles  .     .     .  ) 

Glavis,    his    friend,   also   a    refected)  „ 

.'      ,   JD     j.                    J  UIr.  Meadows. 

suitor  to  Pauline \ 

Colonel  (afterwards  General)  Damas,  \ 

cousin  to  Mine.  Deschappelles,  and>  Mr.   Bartley. 

an  officer  in  the  French  army    .      ) 

Monsieur  Deschappelles,  a  Lyon-  > 

/      *  *  si, ,    /    z>     /•       r  Mr.  Strickland. 
nese  merchant,  father  to  Pauline    \ 

Landlord  of  the  Golden  Lion  .  Mr.  Yarnold. 

Caspar    .( Mr.  Djdoeak. 

Claude  Melnotte Mr.  Macready. 

First  Officer Mr.   Howe. 

Second  Officer Mr.  Pritchard. 

Third  Officer Mr.  Roberts. 

Servants,  ATotary,  <S-v. 

Madame  Deschappelles  ....     Mrs.  W.  Clifford. 

Pauline,  // er  dan ghter Miss  Helen  Faucit 

The  Widow  Melnotte,  mother  to  >  , ,         _ 

~,      ,  r  Mrs.  Griffith. 

Claude > 

J anet,  the  innkeeper's  daughter    .     .     Mrs.  East. 

Marian,  maid  to  Pauline     .     .     .     .     Miss  Garrick. 

SCENE  —  Lyons  and  the  Neighbourhood. 
Time  —  i  795-1 798. 


THE    LADY   OF    LYONS; 

-i. 
\  .■•'"         OR' 

LOVE   AND    PRIDE. 


ACT  I. 


Scene  I.  —  A  room  in  the  house  of  M.  Deschappelles,  at 
Lyons.  Pauline  reclining  on  a  sofa ;  Marian,  her 
maid,  fanning  her —  Flowers  and  notes  on  a  table  beside 
the  sofa  —  Madame  Deschappelles  seated —  The  gardens 
are  seen  from  the  open  window. 

Mme.  Deschap.  Marian,  put  that  rose  a  little  more  to  the 
left.  [Marian  alters  the  position  of  a  rose  in  Pauline's  hair.~\ 
Ah,  so  !  —  that  improves  the  hair,  —  the  toumurc}  the  je  ne 
sais  qtioil  '2  —  You  are  certainly  very  handsome,  child  !  —  quite 
my  style ;  —  I  don't  wonder  that  you  make  such  a  sensation  !  — 
Old,  young,  rich,  and  poor,  do  homage  to  the  Beauty  of  Lyons  ! 

—  Ah,  we  live  again  in  our  children,  —  especially  when  they 
have  our  eyes  and  complexion ! 

Pauline  [languidly].      Dear  mother,  you  spoil  your  Pauline  ! 

—  [Aside.]  I  wish  I  knew  who  sent  me  these  flowers  ! 

Mme.  Deschap.  No,  child  !  —  If  I  praise  you,  it  is  only  to 
inspire  you  with  a  proper  ambition.  You  are  born  to  make  a 
great  marriage.  Beauty  is  valuable  or  worthless  according  as 
you  invest  the  property  to  the  best  advantage. —  Marian,  go  and 
order  the  carriage  !  [Exit  Marian. 


1  The  whole  appearance,  look;  the  full  force  of  tour  mire  is  not  easily  ex- 
pressed by  one  English  word. 
'2  I  know  not  what. 


382  BUL  WER-L  YTTON.  [ act  i . 

Pauline.  Who  can  it  be  that  sends  me,  every  day,  these 
beautiful  flowers  ?  —  how  sweet  they  are  ! 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.     Monsieur  Beauseant,  madam. 

A/me.  Deschap.  Let  him  enter.  Pauline,  this  is  another 
offer !  —  I  know  it  is !  —  Yojur_iather  should  engage  an  addi- 
tional clerk  to  keep  the  account-book  of  your  conquests. 

Enter  Beauseant. 

Beau.  Ah,  ladies,  how  fortunate  I  am  to  find  you  at  home  ! 
—  [Aside.]  How  lovely  she  looks!  —  l_t  is  a  great  sacrifice  I 
make  in  marrying  into  a  family  in  trade  !  —  they  will  be  eternally 
grateful!  — [Aloud.]  Madam,  you  will  permit  me  a  word  with 
your  charming  daughter.  [Approaches  Pauline,  who  rises 
disdain  fully.']  —  Mademoiselle,  I  have  ventured  to  wait  upon 
you,  in  a  hope  that  you  must  long  since  have  divined.  Last 
night,  when  you  outshone  all  the  beauty  of  Lyons,  you  com- 
pleted your  conquest  over  me  !  You  know  that  my  fortune 
is  not  exceeded  by  any  estate  in  the  province,  —  you  know  that, 
but  for  the  Revolution,1  which  has  defrauded*  me  of  my  titles,  1 
should  be  noble.  May  I,  then,  trust  that  you  will  not  reject  my 
alliance?     I  Offer  you  my  hand  and  heart. 

Pauline  [aside'].  He  has  the  air  of  a  man  who  confers  a 
f avbur  !  -  -  [A loud.  ]  Sir,  you  are  very  condescending —  I  thank 
you  humbly  ;  but,  being  duly  sensible  of  my  own  demerits,  you 
must  allow  me  to  decline  the  honour  you  propose. 

[Curtsies,  and  turns  away. 

Beau.     Decline  !      impossible  !  —  you     are     not    serious  !  - 
Madam,  suffer  me    to   appeal   to  you.      I  am  a  suitor  for  your 
daughter's  hand — the  settlements  shall  be  worthy  her  beauty 
and  my  station.      May  I  wait  on  M.  Deschappelles? 

Mfne.  Deschap.  M.  Deschappelles  never  interferes  in  the 
domestic  arrangements, — you  are  very  obliging.  If  you  were 
still  a  marquis,  or  if  my  daughter  were  intended  to  marry  a 
commoner, — -why,  perhaps,  we  might  give  you  the  preference. 


1  The  French  Revolution  of  1789-95,  in  which  all  titles  of  nobility  were 
swept  away.  The  time  of  this  play  is  the  period  immediately  following,  while 
France  is  under  the  Directory. 


SCENE  I.]  THE   LADY  OF  LYONS.  383 

Bean.  A  commoner! — we  are  all  commoners  in  France 
now. 

Mme.  Deschap.  In  France,  yes;  but  there  is  a  nobility  still 
left  in  the  other  countries  in  Europe.  We  are  quite  aware  of 
your  good  qualities,  and  don't  doubt  that  you  will  find  some 
lady  more_suitable  to  your  pretensions.  We  shall  be  always 
happy"  to  see  you  as  an  acquaintance,  M.  Beauseant !  —  My 
dear  child,  the  carriage  will  be  here  presently. 

Beau.  Say  no  more,  madam! — say  no  more! — [Aside.] 
Refused!  and  by  a  merchant's  daughter  !  — refused  !  It  will 
be  all  over  Lyons  before  sunset !  —  I  will  go  and  bury  myself  in 
my  chateau,  study  philosophy,  and  turn  woman-hater.  Re- 
fused !  they  ought  to  be  sent  to  a  madhouse  !  —  Ladies,  I  have 
the  honour  to  wish  you  a  very  good  morning.  [Exit. 

Mme.  Deschap.  How  forward  these  men  are! —  I  think, 
child,  we  kept  up  our  dignity.  Any  girl,  however  inexperi- 
enced, knows  how  to  accept  an  offer,  but  it  requires  a  vast  deal 
of  address  to  refuse  one  with  proper  condescension  and  disdain. 
I  used  to  practise  it  at  school  with  the  dancing-master. 

Enter  Damas. 

Damas-  Good  morning,  cousin  Deschappelles.  —  Well, 
Pauline,  are  you  recovered  from  last  night's  ball? —  So  many 
triumphs  must  be  very  fatiguing.  Even  M.  Glavis  sighed  most 
piteously  when  you  departed  ;  but  that  might  be  the  effect  of 
the  supper. 

Pauline.     M.  Glavis,  indeed  ! 

Mme.  Deschap.  M.  Glavis?  —  as  if  my  daughter  would  think 
of  M.  Glavis  ! 

Damas.  Hey-day !  —  why  not  ?  —  His  father  left  him  a  very 
pretty  fortune,  and  his  birth  is  higher  than  yours,  cousin  Des- 
chappelles. But  perhaps  you  are  looking  to  M.  Beauseant, — 
his  father  was  a  marquis  before  the  Revolution. 

Pauline.  M.  Beauseant! —  Cousin,  you  delight  in  torment 
ing  me  ! 

Mme.  Deschap.  Don't  mind  him,  Pauline  ! —  Cousin  Damns, 
you  have  no  susceptibility  of  feeling,  —  there  is  a  certain  indeli- 
cacy in  all  your  ideas. —  M.  Beauseant  knows  already  that  he 
is  no  match'  for  my  daughter  ! 


3  §4  BUL  WER-L  YTTON.  [ Act  :. 

Damas.  Pooh  !  pooh  !  one  would  think  you  intended  your 
daughter  to  marry  a  prince  ! 

Mine.  DescJiap.  Well,  and  if  I  did? — what  then? —  Many 
a  foreign  prince  — 

Damas  {interrupting  her\.  Foreign  prince'!  —  foreign  fiddle- 
stick ! —  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  such  nonsense  at  your 
time  of  life. 

Mine.  Deschap.  My  time  of  life  ! —  That  is  an  expression 
never  applied  to  any  lady  till  she  is  sixty-nine  and  three-quar- 
ters;  —  and  only  then  by  the  clergyman  of  the  parish. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.     Madame,  the  carriage  is  at  the  door.  [Exit. 

Mine.  Desckap.  Come,  child,  put  on  your  bonnet  —  you 
really  have  a  very  thorough-bred  air  —  not  at  all  like  your  poor 
father. —  [Fondly. ~]  Ah,  you  little  coquette  !  when  a  young  lady 
is  always  making  mischief,  it  is  a  sure  sign  that  she  takes  after 
her  mother! 

Pauline.  Good  clay,  cousin  Damas  —  and  a  better  humour 
to  you.  —  [Going  back  to  the  table  and  taking  the  flowers.'] 
Who  could  have  sent  me  these  flowers? 

[Exeunt  Pauline  and  Madame  Deschappelles. 

Damas.  That  would  be  an  excellent  girl  if  her  head  had  not 
been  turned.  I  fear  she  is  now  become  incorrigible !  Zounds, 
what  a  lucky  fellow  I  am  to  be  still  a  bachelor!  They  may 
talk  of  the  devotion  of  the  sex  —  but  the  most  faithful  attach- 
ment in  life  is  that  of  a  woman  in  love  —  with  herself.-      [Exit. 

Scene  II. — The  exterior  of  a  small  Village  Inn — sign,  the 
Golden  Lion  —  a  few  leagues  from  Lyons,  which  is  seen 
at  a  distance. 

Beau,  [behind  the  scenes}.  Yes,  you  may  bait  the  horses; 
we  shall  rest  here  an  hour. 

Enter  Beauseant  and  Glavis. 

Gla.  Really,  my  dear  Beauseant,  consider  that  I  have  prom- 
ised to  spend  a  day  or  two  with  you  at  your  chateau,  —  that  I 


scene  ii.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  3^5 

am  quite  at  your  mercy  for  my  entertainment,  —  and  yet  you 
arc  as  silent  and  as  gloomy  as  a  mute  at  a  funeral,  or  an  Eng- 
lishman at  a  party  of  pleasure. 

Beau.     Bear  with  me  !  —  the  fact  is  that  I  am  miserable. 

Gla.     You  —  the  richest  and  gayest  bachelor  in  Lyons  ? 

Beau.  It  is  because  I  am  a  bachelor  that  I  am  miserable. — 
Thou  knowest  Pauline  —  the  only  daughter  of  the  rich  mer- 
chant, Mons.  Deschappelles  ? 

Gla.  Know  her? — who  does  not?  —  as  pretty  as  Venus, 
and  as  proud  as  Juno. 

Beau.  Her  taste  is  worse  than  her  pride.  —  {Drawing  hiiti- 
self  up.~]     Know,  Glavis,  she  has  actually  refused  me! 

Gla.  \aside\.  So  she  has  me!  —  very  consoling!  In  all 
cases  of  heart-ache,  the  application  of  another  man's  disap- 
pointment draws  out  the  pain  and  allays  the  irritation.  — 
[Aloud]     Refused  you!  and  wherefore? 

Beau.  I  know  not,  unless  it  be  because  the  Revolution 
swept  away  my  father's  title  of  Marquis, — and  she  will  not 
marry  a  commoner.  Now,  as  we  have  no  noblemen  left  in 
France,  —  as  we  are  all  citizens  and  equals,  she  can  only  hope 
that,  in  spite  of  the  war,  some  English  Milord  or  German  Count 
will  risk  his  life,  by  coming  to  Lyons,  that  this  fi lie  du  rotu- 
rier1  may  condescend  to  accept  him.  Refused  me,  and  with 
scorn  !  —  By  Heaven,  I'll  not  submit  to  it  tamely  :  —  I'm  in  a 
perfect  fever  of  mortification  and  rage.  —     Refuse  me,  indeed  ! 

Gla.  Be  comforted,  my  dear  fellow,  —  I  will  tell  you  a 
secret.     For  the  same  reason  she  refused  me  ! 

Beau.  You!  —  that's  a  very  different  matter!  But  give  me 
your  hand,  Glavis,  —  we'll  think  of  some  plan  to  humble  her. 
Mille  diablcs  !  2  I  should  like  to  see  her  married  to  a  strolling 
player ! 

Enter  Landlord  and  his  Daughter  from  the  Inn. 

Land.  Your  servant,  citizen  Beauseant,  —  servant,  sir.  Per- 
haps you  will  take  dinner  before  you  proceed  to  your  chateau; 
our  larder  is  most  plentifully  supplied. 


1  Daughter  of  a  (the)  commoner. 

2  An  exclamation  meaning  literally  thousand  devils. 

25 


386  BUL  H 'ER-L  YTTON.  [act  i. 

Beau.     I  have  no  appetite. 

Gla.  Nor  I.  Still  it  is  bad  travelling  on  an  empty  stomach. 
What  have  you  got  ?  [  Takes  and  looks  over  the  bill  of  fare. 

[Shout  without.']  "  Long  live  the  Prince  !  —  Long  live  the 
Prince!  " 

Beau.  The  Prince!  —  what  Prince  is  that?  I  thought  we 
had  no  princes  left  in  France. 

Land.  Ha,  ha!  the  lads  always  call  him  Prince.  He  has 
just  won  the  prize  in  the  shooting-match,  and  they  are  taking 
him  home  in  triumph. 

Beau.     Him!  and  who's  Mr.  Him  ? 

Land.  Who  should  he  be  but  the  pride  of  the  village,  Claude 
Melnotte  ?  —     Of  course  you  have  heard  of  Claude  Melnotte  ? 

Gla.  [giving  back  the  bill  of  fare'].  Never  had  that  honour. 
Soup — ragout  of  hare  —  roast  chicken,  and,  in  short,  all  you 
have  ! 

Beau.     The  son  of  old  Melnotte,  the  gardener? 

Land.     Exactly  so  —  a  wonderful  young  man. 

Beau.  How  wonderful  ? —  are  his  cabbages  better  than  other 
people's  ? 

Land.  Nay,  he  don't 1  garden  any  more  ;  his  father  left  him 
well  off.     Pie's  only  a  genus.1 

Gla.     A  what  ?  ' 

Land.  A  genus !  —  a  man  who  can  do  everything  in  life 
except  anything  that's  useful;  —  that's  a  genus. 

Beau.     You  raise  my  curiosity;  —  proceed. 

Land.  Well,  then,  about  four  years  ago,  old  Melnotte  died, 
and  left  his  son  well  to  do  in  the  world.  We  then  all  observed 
that  a  great  change  came  over  young  Claude  :  he  took  to  read- 
ing and  Latin,  and  hired  a  professor  from  Lyons,  who  had  so 
much  in  his  head  that  he  was  forced  to  wear  a  great  full-bottom 
wig  to  cover  it.  Then  he  took  a  fencing-master,  and  a  dancing- 
master,  and  a  music-masler ;  and  then  he  learned  to  paint;  and 
at  last  it  was  said  that  young  Claude  was  to  go  to  Paris,  and 
set  up  for  a  painter.  The  lads  laughed  at  him  at  firsts  but  he 
is  a  stout  fellow,  is  Claude,  and  as  brave  as  a  lion,  and  soon 


1  The  landlord  does  nut  use  the  best  language.    Tony  Lumpkin  pronounces 
genius  in  the  same  way  in  his  song  (page  1 1). 


scene  ii.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  3  87 

taught  them  to  laugh  the  wrong  side  of  their  mouths;  and  now 
all  the  boys  swear  by  him,  and  all  the  girls  pray  for  him. 

Beau.  A  promising  youth,  certainly  !  And  why  do  they  call 
him  Prince  ? 

Land.  Partly  because  he  is  at  the  head  of  them  all,  and 
partly  because  he  has  such  a  proud  way  with  him,  and  wears 
such  fine  clothes —  and,  in  short,  looks  like  a  prince. 

Beau.  And  what  could  have  turned  the  foolish  fellow's 
brain  ?     The  Revolution,  I  suppose  ?     - 

Land.  Yes  —  the  revolution  that  turns  us  all  topsy-turvy  — 
tlie  revolution  of  Love. 

Beau.  Romantic  young  Corydon ! 1  And  with  whom  is  he 
in  love  ? 

Land.     Why  —  but  it  is  a  secret,  gentlemen. 

Beau.     Oh  !  eertainly. 

Laud.  Why,  then,  I  hear  from  his  mother,  good  soul  !  that 
it  is  no  less  a  person  than  the  Beauty  of  Lyons,  Pauline 
Deschappelles. 

Beau,  and  Glavis.     Ha,  ha  !  —  Capital ! 

Land.     You  may  laugh,  but  it  is  as  true  as  I  stand  here. 

Beau.     And  what  does  the  Beauty  of  Lyons  say  to  his  suit  ? 

Land.  Lord,  sir,  she  never  even  condescended  to  look  at 
him.  though  when  he  was  a  boy  he  worked  in  her  father's  garden. 

Beau.     Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

Laud.  His  mother  says  that  Mademoiselle  does  not  know 
him  by  sight. 

Beau,  [taking  Glavis  aside'].  I  have  hit  it,  —  I  have  it;  — 
here  is  our  revenge  !  Here  is  a  prince  for  our  haughty  damsel. 
Do  you  take  me  ? 

Gla.     Deuce  take  me  if  I  do  ! 

Beau.  Blockhead  !  —  it's  as  clear  as  a  map.  What  if  we 
could  make  this  elegant  clown  pass  himself  off  as  a  foreign 
prince  ?  —  lend  him  money,  clothes,  equipage  for  the  purpose  ? 
—  make  him  propose  to  Pauline?  —  marry  Pauline?  Would  it 
lot  be  delicious? 

Gla.  1 1  a,  ha!  —  Excellent!  But  how  shall  we  support  the 
necessary  expenses  of  his  highness  ? 


l  A   love-sick  swain.     See  Theocritus'  Idyls  and  Virgil's  Eclogues. 

'b 


388  BULWER-LYTTON.  [acv. 

Beau.  Pshaw  !  Revenge  is  worth  a  much  larger  sacrifice 
than  a  few  hundred  louis ;  —  as  for  details,  my  valet  is  the 
trustiest  fellow  in  the  world,  and  shall  have  the  appointment  of 
his  highness's  establishment.  Let's  go  to  him  at  once,  and  see 
if  he  be  really  this  Admirable  Crichton.1 

Gla.     With  all  my  heart ;  —  but  the  dinner  ? 

Beau.  Always  thinking  of  dinner  !  Hark  ye,  landlord  ;  how 
far  is  it  to  young  Melnotte's  cottage  ?  I  should  like  to  see  such 
a  prodigy. 

Land.  Turn  down  the  lane,  then  strike  across  the  common, 
and  you  will  see  his  mother's  cottage. 

Beau.  True,  he  lives  with  his  mother. — [Aside."]  We  will 
not  trust  to  an  old  woman's  discretion;  better  send  for  him 
hither.     I'll  just  step  in  and  write  him  a  note.      Come,  Glavis. 

Gla.  Yes,  —  Beauseant,  (ilavis,  and  Co.,  manufacturers  of 
princes,  wholesale  and  retail,  —an  uncommonly  genteel  line  of 
business.     But  why  so  grave? 

Beau.     You  think  only  of  the  sport,  —  I  of  the  revenge. 

[Exeunt  within  the  Inn. 

Scene  III.  —  The  interior  #/ Melnotte's  cottage;  flowers 
placed  here  and  there  ;  a  guitar  on  an  oaken  table,  7c<ith 
a  portfolio,  &r.  ;  a  picture  on  an  easel,  covered  by  a  cur- 
tain ;  fencing-foils  crossed  over  the  mantelpiece ;  an 
attempt  at  refinement  in  spite  of  the  homeliness  of  the 
furniture,  &"c. ;  a  staircase  to  the  right  conducts  to  the 
upper  story. 

[Shout  without.]  "Long  live  Claude  Melnotte  !  "  "Long 
live  the  Prince  !  " 

The  Widow  Mel.  Hark!  —  there's  my  dear  son; — car- 
ried off  the  prize,  I'm  sure ;  and  now  he'll  want  to  treat  them 
all. 

Claude  Mel.  [opening  the  door].     What !  you  will  not  come  in, 


l  James  Crichton  (born  1 560)  was  surnamed  the  Admirable  on  account  of 
his  remarkable  memory  and  linguistic  facility.     He  was  made  the  hero  of  a 
story  by  W.  H.  Ainsworth  a  short  while  before  the  appearance  of  this  play. 
16 


scene  in.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  389 

my  friends  !     Well,  well,  —  there's  a  trifle  to  make  merry  else- 
where.    Good  day  to  you  all,  —  good  day  ! 

[Shout.]     "  Hurrah  !     Long  live  Prince  Claude  !  " 

Enter  Claude  Melnotte,  with  a  rifle  in  his  hand. 

Mel.  Give  me  joy,  dear  mother!  —  I've  won  the  prize!  — 
never  missed  one  shot !     Is  it  not  handsome,  this  gun  ? 

Widow.     Humph  ! —     Well,  what  is  it  worth,  Claude? 

Mel.  Worth  !  What  is  a  riband  worth  to  a  soldier  ?  Worth  ! 
everything  !     Glory  is  priceless  ! 

Widow.  Leave  glory  to  great  folks.  Ah !  Claude,  Claude, 
castles  in  the  air  cost  a  vast  deal  to  keep  up  !  How  is  all  this 
to  end  ?  What  good  does  it  do  thee  to  learn  Latin,  and  sing 
songs,  and  play  on  the  guitar,  and  fence,  and  dance,  and  paint 
pictures?     All  very  fine  ;  but  what  does  it  bring  in? 

Mel.  Wealth  !  wealth,  my  mother !  Wealth  to  the  mind 
—  wealth  to  the  heart  —  high  thoughts  —  bright  dreams  — 
the  hope  of  fame  —  the  ambition  to  be  worthier  to  love  Pauline. 

Widow.  My  poor  son  !  —  The  young  lady  will  never  think 
of  thee. 

Mel.  Do  the  stars  think  of  us?  Yet  if  the  prisoner  see  them 
shine  into  his  dungeon,  wouldst  thou  bid  him  turn  away  from 
their  lustre  ?  Even  so  from  this  low  cell,  poverty,  I  lift  my  eyes 
to  Pauline  and  forget  my  chains.  [Goes  to  the  picture  and 
draws  aside  the  curtain. ~\  See,  this  is  her  image  —  painted  from 
memory.  Oh,  how  the  canvas  wrongs  her!  [Takes  up  the 
brush  and  throws  it  aside.]  I  shall  never  be  a  painter  !  I  can 
paint  no  likeness  but  one,  and  that  is  above  all  art.  I  would 
turn  soldier —  France  needs  soldiers  !  But  to  leave  the  air  that 
Pauline  breathes!  What  is  the  hour? — so  late?  I  will  tell 
thee  a  secret,  mother.  Thou  knowest  that  for  the  last  six  weeks 
I  have  sent  every  day  the  rarest  flowers  to  Pauline  ?  —  she  wears 
them.  I  have  seen  them  on  her  breast.  Ah,  and  then  the 
whole  universe  seemed  filled  with  odours  !  I  have  now  grown 
more  bold  —  I  have  poured  my  worship  into  poetry  —  I  have 
sent  the  verses  to  Pauline  —  I  have  signed  them  with  my  own 
name.  My  messenger  ought  to  be  back  by  this  time.  I  bade 
him  wait  for  the  answer. ' 

Widow.     And  what  answer  do  you  expect,  Claude? 

'7 


39°  BULWER-LYTTON.  [act  i. 

Mel.  That  which  the  Queen  of  Navarre  sent  to  the  poor 
troubadour  : 1  —  "  Let  me  see  the  Oracle  that  can  tell  nations  1 
am  beautiful ! "  She  will  admit  me.  I  shall  hear  her  speak  — 
1  shall  meet  her  eyes — I  shall  read  upon  her  cheek  the  sweet 
thoughts  that  translate  themselves  into  blushes.  Then  —then, 
oh,  then  —  she  may  forget  that  I  am  the  peasant's  son  ! 

Widow.     Nay,  if  she  will  but  hear  thee  talk,  Claude  ! 

Mel.  I  foresee  it  all.  She  will  tell  me  that  desert  is  the  true 
rank.  She  will  give  me  a  badge  —  a  flower  —  a  glove!  Oh  rap- 
ture !  I  shall  join  the  armies  of  the  Republic  —  I  shall  rise  —  I 
shall  win  a  name  that  beauty  will  not  blush  to  hear.  I  shall  re- 
turn with  the  right  to  say  to  her  —  "^See,  how  Jove-does  not 
level  the  proud,  but-  raise_ths  humble  !  "  Oh,  how  my  heart 
swells  within  me  !  —  Oh,  what  glorious  prophets  of  the  future 
are  youth  and  hope  !  2  \Kno£k  at  the  door. 

Widow.     Come  in. 

Enter  Gaspar. 

Mel.  Welcome,  Gaspar,  welcome.  Where  is  the  letter? 
Why  do  you  turn  away,  man?  where  is  the  letter?  [Gaspar 
gives  him  one.}  This !  This  is  mine,  the  one  I  intrusted  to 
thee.     Didst  thou  not  leave  it  ? 

Gaspar.     Yes,  I  left  it. 

Mel.     My  own  verses  returned  to  me.     Nothing  else  ! 

Gaspar.  Thou  wilt  be  proud  to  hear  how  thy  messenger  was 
honoured.  For  thy  sake.  Melnotte,  I  have  borne  that  which  no 
Frenchman  can  bear  without  disgrace. 

Mel.     Disgrace,  Gaspar  !  Disgrace  ? 

1  Clement  Marot  was  long  at  the  court  of  Margaret  of  Navarre,  a  patroness 
of  men  of  letters,  but  I  do  not  find  this  story  related  of  him.  Bischoff  thinks 
that  perhaps  Bulwer  has  made  a  mistake,  and- quotes  the  following  concerning 
Jean  Marot  and  Anne  of  Bretagne  from  Colletet's  Notices  biografhiqucs.  suf 
lestrois  Marot  si 

"  Quelques-unes  de  ses  rymes  s'estant  espandues  a  la  cour  parvinrent  jusques 
au  cabinet  de  la  royne  Anne,  duchesse  de  Bretagne,  qui  les  lent  avec  plaisir  et 
qui  en  voullut  cognoistre  l'autheur,  ct  son  bonhcur  voulliit  que  ceste  vertueuse 
princesse  prist  tant  de  goust  a  son  entretien,  aussy  bien  qu'a  ses  vers,  qu'elle 
l'arresta  des  lors  a  son  service  en  qualite  de  son  poete,  on  de  son  escrivain  ordi- 
naire, et  luy  ordonna  pour  cela  de  bons  gages." 

2  Compare  Richelieu,  III.,  i.  (page  495). 

18 


scene  in.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  39 * 

Gaspar.  I  gave  thy  letter  to  the  porter,  who  passed  it  from 
lackey  to  lackey  till  it  reached  the  lady  it  was  meant  for. 

Mel.  It  reached  her,  then ;— you  are  sure  of  that!  It 
reached  her,  —  well,  well ! 

Gaspar.  It  reached  her,  and  was  returned  to  me  with  blows. 
Dost  hear,  Melnotte  ?  with  blows  !  Death  !  are  we  slaves  still, 
that  we  are  to  be  thus  dealt  with,  we  peasants  ? 

Mel.     With  blows  ?     No,  Gaspar,  no  ;  not  blows  ! 

Gaspar.  I  could  show  thee  the  marks  if  it  were  not  so  deep 
a  shame  to  bear  them.  The  lackey  who  tossed  thy  letter  into 
the  mire  swore  that  his  lady  and  her  mother  never  were  so  in- 
sulted.    What  could  thy  letter  contain,  Claude  ? 

Mel.  [looking  over  the  letter].  Not  a  line  that  a  serf  might 
not  have  written  to  an  empress.      No,  not  one. 

Gaspar.  They  promise  thee  the  same  greeting  they  gave  me, 
if  thou  wilt  pass  that  way.       Shall  we  endure  this,  Claude  ? 

Mel.  [wringing  Gaspar's  hand].  Forgive  me,  the  fault  was 
mine,  I  have  brought  this  on  thee ;  I  will  not  forget  it ;  thou 
shalt  be  avenged  !     The  heartless  insolence  ! 

Gaspar.  Thou  art  moved,  Melnotte  ;  think  not  of  me ;  I 
would  go  through  fire  and  water  to  serve  thee;  but,  — a  blow  ! 
It  is  not  the  bruise  that  galls,  —  it  is  the  blush,  Melnotte. 

Mel.  Say,  what  message? —  How  insulted? —  Where- 
fore ?  —     What  the  offence  ? 

Gaspar.  Did  you  not  write  to  Pauline  Deschappelles,  the 
daughter  of  the  rich  merchant  ? 

Mel.     Well  ?  — 

Gaspar.  And  are  you  not  a  peasant  —  a  gardener's  son.  — 
that  was  the  offence.  Sleep  on  it,  Melnotte.  Blows  to  a  French 
citizen,  blows  !  [Exit. 

Widow.     Now  you  are  cured,  Claude  ! 

Mel.  [tearing  the  letter].  So  do  I  scatter  her  image  to  the 
winds  —  I  will  stop  her  in  the  open  streets  —  I  will  insult  her  — 
I  will  beat  her  menial  ruffians  —  I  will  —  [Turns  suddenly  to 
Widow.]     Mother,  am  I  humpbacked —deformed  —  hideous? 

Widow.     You! 

Mel.     A  coward  —  a  thief  —  a  liar  ? 

Widow.     You! 

Mel.     Or  a  dull  fool  —  a  vain,  drivelling,  brainless  idiot  ? 

19 


392  BUL  WER-L  YTTON.  [act  i. 

Widow.     No,  no. 

Mel.  What  am  I  then  —  worse  than  all  these  ?  Why,  I  am 
a  peasant !  What  has  a  peasant  to  do  with  love?  Vain  revolu- 
tions, why  lavish  your  cruelty  on  the  great  ?  Oh  that  we  —  we, 
the  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water1  —  had  been  swept 
away,  so  that  the  proud  might  learn  what  the  world  would  be 
without  us !  —  .  {Knock  at  the  door. 

Enter  Servant//w«  the  Inn. 

Servant.     A  letter  for  Citizen  Melnotte. 

Mel.     A  letter  !  from  her  perhaps  —  who  sent  thee  ? 

Servant.  Why,  Monsieur — I  mean  Citizen  —  Beauseant, 
who  stops  to  dine  at  the  Golden  Lion,  on  his  way  to  his 
chateau. 

Mel.     Beauseant !  —  [Reads.] 

Young  man,  I  know  thy  secret  —  thou  lovest  above  thy  station  :  if 
thou  hast  wit,  courage,  and  discretion,  I  can  secure  to  thee  the  realiza- 
tion of  thy  most  sanguine  hopes  ;  and  the  sole  condition  I  ask  in 
return  is,  that  thou  shalt  be  steadfast  to  thine  own  ends.  I  shall  de- 
mand from  thee  a  solemn  oath  to  marry  her  whom  thou  lovest ;  to 
hear  her  to  thine  home  on  thy  wedding  night.  I  am  serious  —  if  thou 
wouldst  learn  more,  lose  not  a  moment,  but  follow  the  bearer  of  this 
letter  to  thy  friend  and  patron, 

Charles  Beauseant. 

Mel.  Can  I  believe  my  eyes  ?  Are  our  own  passions  the 
sorcerers  that  raise  up  for  us  spirits  of  good  or  evil  ?  I  will 
go  instantly. 

Widow.     What  is  this,  Claude  ? 

Mel.  "  Marry  her  whom  thou  lovest  "  —  "  bear  her  to  thine 
own  home." —  Oh,  revenge  and  love;  which  of  you  is  the 
stronger? — [Gazing  on  the  picture.']  Sweet  face,  thou  smilest 
on  me  from  the  canvas :  weak  fool  that  I  am,  do  I  then  love 
her  still  ?  No,  it  is  the  vision  of  my  own  romance  that  I  have 
worshipped  :  it  is  the  reality  to  which  I  bring  scorn  for  scorn. 
Adieu,  mother:  I  will  return  anon.  My  brain  reels  —  the  earth 
swims  before  me.  —  [Looks  again  at  the  letter.]  No,  it  is  not  a 
mockery  ;  I  do  not  dream  !  [Exit. 


]  See  Joshua.  IX.,  21,  23,  27. 
20 


-scene  i.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  393 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I.  —  The  gardens  of  M.  Deschappelles'  house  at 
Lyons —  the  house  seen  at  the  back  of  the  stage. 

Enter  Beauseant  and  Glavis. 

Beau.  Well,  what  think  you  of  my  plot?  Has  it  not  suc- 
ceeded to  a  miracle?  The  instant  that  I  introduced  his  High- 
ness the  Prince  of  Como 1  to  the  pompous  mother  and  the 
scornful  daughter,  it  was  all  over  with  them:  he  came  —  he  saw 
—  he  conquered,2  and,  though  it  is  not  many  days  since  he 
arrived,  they  have  already  promised  him  the  hand  of  Pauline. 

Gla.  It  is  lucky,  though,  that  you  told  them  his  Highness 
travelled  incognito,  for  fear  the  Directory  3  (who  are  not  very 
fond  of  princes)  should  lay  him  by  the  heels  ;  for  he  has  a  won- 
derful wish  to  keep  up  his  rank,,  and  scatters  our  gold  about 
with  as  much  coolness  as  if  he  were  watering  his  own  flower- 
pots. 

Beau.  True,  he  is  damnably  extravagant;  I  think  the  sly 
dog  does  it  out  of  malice.  However,  it  must  be  owned  that  he 
reflects  credit  on  his  loyal  subjects,  and  makes  a  very  pretty 
figure  in  his  fine  clothes,  with  my  diamond  snuff-box. 

Gla.  And  my  diamond  ring  !  But  do  you  think  he  will  be 
firm  to  the  last  ?  I  fancy  I  see  symptoms  of  relenting  :  he  will 
never  keep  up  his  rank,  if  he  once  let  out  his  conscience. 

Beau.  His  oath  binds  him  !  he  cannot  retract  without  being 
forsworn,  and  those  low  fellows  are  always  superstitious  !  But, 
as  it  is,  I  tremble  lest  he  be  discovered:  that  bluff  Colonel 
Damas  (Madame  Deschappelles'  cousin)  evidently  suspects 
him:  we  must  make  haste  and  conclude  the  farce:  I  have 
thought  of  a  plan  to  end  it  this  very  day. 

Gla.  This  very  day  !  Poor  Pauline :  her  dream  will  be  soon 
over. 


1  A  city  and  province  on  Lake  Como  in  northern  Italy. 

2  Caesar's  "  Veni,  vidi,  vici."     See  Suetonius,  Vita  Casarum,  I.,  37. 

3  France  was  under  the  Directory  from  1795  to  I799-- 

21 


394  BUL  WER-L  YTTON.  [act  i i . 

Beau.  Yes,  this  day  they  shall  be  married  ;  this  evening, 
according  to  his  oath,  he  shall  carry  his  bride  to  the  Golden 
Lion,  and  then  pomp,  equipage,  retinue,  and  title,  all  shall  van- 
ish at  once  ;  and  her  Highness  the  Princess  shall  find  that  she 
has  refused  the  son  of  a  Marquis,  to  marry  the  son  of  the  gar- 
dener. —  Oh,  Pauline  !  once  loved,  now  hated,  yet  still  not  re- 
linquished, thou  shalt  drain  the  cup  to  the  dregs,  —  thou  shalt 
know  what  it  is  to  be  humbled  ! 

Enter  from  the  house,  Melnotte,  as  the  Prince  of Co/no,  lead 
ingin  Pauline  ;  Madame  Deschappelles,/»«#z'#£' her- 
self; and  Colonel  Damas. 

[Beauseant  and  Glavis  bow  respectfully.     Pauline 
and  Melnotte  walk  apart. 

Mine.  Dcschap.  Good  morning,  gentlemen ;  really  I  am  so 
fatigued  with  laughter ;  the  dear  Prince  is  so  entertaining. 
What  wit  he  has  !  Any  one  may  see  that  he  has  spent  his 
whole  life  in  courts. 

Damas.  And  what  the  deuce  do  you  know  about  courts, 
cousin  Deschappelles  ?  You  women  regard  men  just  as  you 
buy  books  —  you  never  care  about  what  is  in  them,  but  how 
they  are  bound  and  lettered.  'Sdeath,  I  don't  think  you  would 
even  look  at  your  Bible  if  it  had  not  a  title  to  it. 

Mme.  Dcschap.  How  coarse  you  are,  cousin  Damas!  — 
quite  the  manners  of  a  barrack  —  you  don't  deserve  to  be  one  of 
our  family;  really  we  must  drop  your  acquaintance  when 
Pauline  marries.  I  cannot  patronize  any  relations  that  would 
discredit  my  future  son-in-law,  the  Prince  of  Como. 

Mel.  [advancing].  These  are  beautiful  gardens,  madame, 
[Beauseant  and  Glavis  retire.']  —  who  planned  them  ? 

Mine.  Dcschap.  A  gardener  named  Melnotte,  your  Highness 
—  an  honest  man  who  knew  his  station.  I  can't  say  as  much 
'for  his  son  —a  presuming  fellow,  who  —  ha  !  ha  !  actually  wrote 
verses  —  such  doggerel !  —  to  my  daughter. 

/'online.  Yes,  how  you  would  have  laughed  at  them,  Prince  ! 
\,  —  you,  who  write  such  beautiful  verses ! 

Mel.     This  Melnotte  must  be  a  monstrous  impudent  person  ! 

Damns.     Is  he  good-looking? 

32 


scene  i.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  395 


Mine.  Deschap.  I  never  notice  such  canaille1— an  ugly, 
mean-looking  clown,  if  I   remember  right. 

Damns.  Yet  I  heard  your  porter  say  he  was  wonderfully  like 
his  Highness. 

Mel.   {taking  snuff}.     You  are  complimentary. 

Mine.  Deschap.  For  shame,  cousin  Damas  !  —  like  the  Prince, 
indeed  ! 

Pauline.  Like  you !  Ah,  mother,  like  our  beautiful  Prince! 
I'll  never  speak  to  you  again,  cousin  Damas. 

Mel.  {aside'].  Humph!  — rank  is  a  great  beautifier!  I 
never  passed  for  an  Apollo  while  I  was  a  peasant ;  if  I  am  so 
handsome  as  a  prince,  what  should  I  be  as  an  emperor ! 
{Aloud.}     Monsieur  Beauseant,  will  you  honour  me? 

{Offers  snuff. 

Beau.     No,  your  Highness;  I  have  no  small  vices. 

Mel.  Nay,  if  it  were  a  vice,  you'd  be  sure  to  have  it, 
Monsieur  Beauseant. 

Mine.  Deschap.     Ha  !  ha  !  —  how  very  severe  !  —  what  wit ! 

Beau,   {in  a  rage  and  aside].     Curse  his  impertinence  ! 

Mine.  Deschap.     What  a  superb  snuff-box  ! 

Pauline.     And  what  a  beautiful  ring  ! 

Mel.  You  like  the  box  —  a  trifle  — interesting  perhaps  from 
associations  —  a  present  from  Louis  XIV.,2  to  my  great-great- 
grandmother.     Honour  me  by  accepting  it. 

Beau,  {plucking  him  by  the  sleeve}.  How! — what  the 
devil!  My  box  —  are  you  mad?  It  is  worth  five  hundred 
louis. 

Mel.  {unheeding  him,  and  turning  to  Pauline].  And  you 
like  this  ring?  Ah,  it  has,  indeed,  a  lustre  since  your  eyes  have 
shone  on  it  {placing  it  on  her  finger].  Henceforth  hold  me, 
sweet  enchantress,  the  Slave  of  the  Ring.3 

Gla.  {pulling him].  Stay,  stay  —  what  are  you  about?  My 
maiden  aunt's  Lgacy  —  a  diamond  of  the  first  water.  You 
shall  be  hanged  for  swindling,  sir. 


1  Low  people. 

-  King  of  France  from  1643  to  I7,[i- 

8  An  allusion  to  the  story  of  Aladdin  and  his  ring  in  tlie  Arabian  Nights. 
By  rubbing  the  ring  the  bearer  of  it  could  summon  to  his  service  the  genius  of 
the  ring. 

23 


39^  BULWER-LYTTON.  [act  n. 

Mel.  pretending  not  to  //ear].  It  is  curious,  this  ring  ;  it  is 
the  one  with  which  my  grandfather,  the  Doge  of  Venice,  mar- 
ried the  Adriatic ! 1    [Madame  and  Pauline  examine  the  ring. 

Mel.  [to  Beauseant  and  Glavis].  Fie,  gentlemen  !  princes 
must  be  generous.  —  [Turns  to  Damas,  who  watches  them 
closely.]  These  kind  friends  have  my  interest  so  much  at 
heart,  that  they  are  as  careful  of  my  property  as  if  it  were 
their  own ! 

Bean,  and  Gla.  [confusedly].  Ha!  ha!— very  good  joke 
that !     [Appear  to  remonstrate  with  Melnotte  in  dumb  show. 

Damas.  What's  all  that  whispering?  I  am  sure  there  is 
some  juggle  here:  hang  me,  if  I  think  he  is  an  Italian  after  all. 
Gad,  I'll  try  him.     Servitore  umilissimo,  Eccellenza.* 

Mel.     Hum  —  what  does  he  mean,  I  wonder? 

Damas.     Godo  di  vedervi  in  buona  salute. f 

Mel.     Hem  —  hem  ! 

Damas.     Fa  bel  tempo  —  che  si  dice  di  nuovo?  % 

Mel.     Well,  sir,  what's  all  that  gibberish  ? 

Damas.  Oh,  oh!  —  only  Italian,  your  Highness! —  The 
Prince  of  Como  does  not  understand  his  own  lano-uaire ! 

Mel.     Not  as  you  pronounce  it;  who  the  deuce  could? 

Mine.  Deschap.  Ha!  ha!  cousin  Damas,  never  pretend 
to  what  you  don't  know. 

Pauline.  Ha!  ha!  cousin  Damas;  _yo«  speak  Italian,  in- 
deed !  [Makes  a  mocking  gesture  at  him. 

Beau,  [to  Glavis].     Clever  dog  !  —  how  ready  ! 

*  Your  Excellency's  most  humble  servant. 
1 1  am  glad  to  see  you  in  good  health. 
%  Fine  weather.     What  news  is  there? 


1  This  ceremony,  celebrated  every   Ascension  Day,  was  instituted  early  it 
the  fourteenth  century.     The  Doge  of   Venice  in  a  vessel  called    Bucentaur 
went  in  great  pomp  upon  the  Adriatic  and  performed  a  marriage  ceremrmy 
with  the  sea  by  casting  a  ring  into  the  water.     The  ceremony  has  been  di: 
continued  since  the  beginning  of  the  present  century. 

"  The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord  ; 
And,  annual  marriage  now  no  more  renewed, 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored, 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood  !  " 

Byron,  Chihic  Harold,  IV.,  xi. 
«4 


scene  i.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  397 

Gla.  Ready,  yes;  with  my  diamond  ring! —  Damn  his 
readiness ! 

Dumas.  Laugh  at  me!  —  laugh  at  a  colonel  in  the  French 
army!  — the  fellow's  an  impostor;  I  know  he  is.  I'll  see  if  he 
understands  fighting  as  well  as  he  does  Italian.  —  [Goes  up  to 
him,  and  aside.]  Sir,  you  are  a  jackanapes! —  Can  you  con- 
strue that? 

Mel.  No,  sir;  I  never  construe  affronts  in  the  presence  of 
ladies;  by-and-by  I  shall  be  happy  to  take  a  lesson  —  or  give 
one. 

Dumas.     I'll  find  the  occasion,  never  fear! 

Mme.  Desckap.     Where  are  you  going,  cousin  ? 

llamas.     To  correct  my  Italian.  [Exit. 

Beau.  [to  Glavis].  Let  us  after,  and  pacify  him  ;  he  evi- 
dently suspects  something. 

Gla.     Yes  !  —  but  my  diamond  ring  ! 

Beau.  And  my  box  !  —  We  are  over-taxed  fellow-subjects ! 
—  we  must  stop  the  supplies,  and  dethrone  the  prince. 

Gla.  Prince!  —  he  ought  to  be  heir-apparent  to  King 
Stork.1  [Exeunt  Beauseant  and  Glavis. 

Mme.  Desckap.  Dare  I  ask  your  Highness  to  forgive  my 
cousin's  insufferable  vulgarity? 

Pauline.  Oh  yes!  —  you  will  forgive  his  manner  for  the 
sake  of  his  heart. 

Mel.  And  the  sake  of  his  cousin.  —  Ah,  madam,  there  is 
one  comfort  in  rank,  —  we  are  so  sure  of  our  position  that  we 
are  not  easily  affronted.  Besides,  M.  Damas  has  bought  the 
right  of  indulgence  from  his  friends,  by  never  showing  it  to  his 
enemies. 

Pauline.  Ah  !  he  is,  indeed,  as  brave  in  action  as  he  is  rude 
in  speech.  He  rose  from  the  ranks  to  his  present  grade,  and 
in  two  years  ! 

Mel.     In  two  years  !  — two  years,  did  you  say  ? 

Mme.  Deschap.  [aside].     I  don't  like  leaving  girls  alone  with 


1  An  allusion  to  /Esop's  fable  of  the  'Frogs  Asking  for  a  King.  Jupiter 
at  last  sent  them  a  stork,  which  devoured  them  In  Phaedrus'  version  (I.,  2) 
of  the  fable  it  was  a  water  snake  and  in  La  Fontaine's  (III.,  4)  a  crane  that 
was  sent. 


*S 


398  BULWER-LYTTON.  [act  n. 


their  lovers;  but,  with  a  prince,  it  would  be  so  ill-bred   to  be 
prudish.  [Exit. 

Mel.  You  can  be  proud  of  your  connection  with  one  who 
owes  his  position  to  merit,  —  not  birth. 

Pauline      Why,  yes;  but  still  — 

Mel.     Still  what,  Pauline  ! 

Pauline.  There  is  something  glorious  in  the  heritage  of 
command.  A  man  who  has  ancestors  is  like  a  representative 
of  the  past. 

Mel.  True;  but,  like  other  representatives,  nine  times  out  of 
ten  he  is  a  silent  member.  Ah,  Pauline  !  not  to  the  past,  but  to 
the  future,  looks  true  nobility,  and  finds  its  blazon  in  posterity. 

Pauline.  You  say  this  to  please  me,  who  have  no  ancestors ; 
but  you,  prince,  must  be  proud  of  so  illustrious  a  race  ! 

Aid.  No,  no  !  I  would  not,  were  I  fifty  times  a  prince,  be 
a  pensioner  on  the  dead  !  I  honour  birth  and  ancestry  when 
they  are  regarded  as  the  incentives  to  exertion,  not  the  title- 
deeds  to  sloth  !  I  honour  the  laurels  that  overshadow  the 
graves  of  our  fathers  ;  —  it  is  our  fathers  1  emulate,  when  I  desire 
that  beneath  the  evergreen  1  myself  have  planted  my  own  ashes 
may  repose  !     Dearest  !  couldst  thou  but  see  with  my  eyes ! 

Pauline.  I  cannot  forego  pride  when  I  look  on  thee,  and 
think  that  thou  lovest  me.  Sweet  Prince,  tell  me  again  of  thy 
palace  by  the  Lake  of  Como ;  it  is  so  pleasant  to  hear  of  thy 
splendours  since  thou  didst  swear  to  me  that  they  would  be 
desolate  without  Pauline  ;  and  when  thou  describest  them,  it  is 
with  a  mocking  lip  and  a  noble  scorn,  as  if  custom  had  made 
thee  disdain  greatness. 

Mel.     Nay,  dearest,  nay,  if  thou  wouldst  have  me  paint 
The  home  to  which,  could  love  fulfil  its  prayers, 
This  hand  would  lead  thee,  listen  !  *  -       A  deep  vale 

*  The  reader  will  observe  that  Melnotte  evades  the  request  of  Pauline. 
He  proceeds  to  describe  a  home,  which  he  does  not  say  he  possesses,  but  to 
which  he  would  lead  her,  '■<<>///,/  Love  fulfil  its  frayers."  This  caution  is 
intended  as  a  reply  to  a  sagacious  critic  who  censures  the  description  because 
it  is  not  an  exact  and  prosaic  inventory  of  tin-  characteristics  of  the  Lake  of 
Como  !  —  When  Melnotte,  for  instance,  talks  of  birds  "  that  syllable  the  name 
of  Pauline"  (by  the  way,  a  literal  translation  from  an  Italian  poet),  he  is  not 
thinking  of  ornithology,  but  probably  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  He  is  venting 
the  extravagant,  but  natural,  enthusiasm  of  the  poet  and  the  lover. 
26 


scene  i.]  THE   LADY  OF  LYONS.  399 

Shut  out  by  Alpine  hills  from  the  rude  world ; 
Near  a  clear  lake,  margined  by  fruits  of  gold 
And  whispering  myrtles  ;  glassing  1  softest  skies, 
As  cloudless,  save  with  rare  and  roseate  shadows, 
As  I  would  have  thy  fate  ! 

Pauline.  My  own  dear  love  ! 

Mel.     A  palace  lifting  to  eternal  summer 
Its  marble  walls,  from  out  a  glossy  bower 
Of  coolest  foliage  musical  with  birds, 
Whose  songs  should  syllable  thy  name  !     At  noon 
We'd  sit  beneatli  the  arching  vines,  and  wonder 
Why  Earth  could  be  unhappy,  while  the  Heavens 
Still  left  us  youth  and  love  !     We'd  have  no  friends 
That  were  not  lovers  ;  no  ambition,  save 
To  excel  them  all  in  love  ;  we'd  read  no  books 
That  were  not  tales  of  love  —  that  we  misrht  smile 
To  think  how  poorly  eloquence  of  words 
Translates  the  poetry  of  hearts  like  ours  ! 
And  when  night  came,  amidst  the  breathless  Heavens 
We'd  guess  what  star  should  be  our  home  when  love 
Becomes  immortal ;   while  the  perfumed  light 
Stole  through  the  mists  of  alabaster  lamps, 
And  every  air  was  heavy  with  the  sighs 
Of  orange-groves  and  music  from  sweet  lutes, 
And  murmurs  of  low  fountains  that  gush  forth 
V  the  midst  of  roses  !  —     Dost  thou  like  the  picture  ? 

Pauline.     Oh,  as  the  bee  upon  the  flower,  I  hang 
Upon  the  honey  of  thy  eloquent  tongue  ! 
Am  I  not  blest?     Anil  if  I  love  too  wildly, 
Who  would  not  love  thee  like  Pauline? 

Mel.   |  bitterly  ].  Oh,  false  one  ! 

ft  is  fas. prince  thou  lovest,  not  the  man  : 
If  in  the  stead  of  luxury,  pomp,  and  power, 
I  had  painted  poverty,  and  toil,  and  care, 
Thou  hadst  found  no  honey  on  my  tongue;  —  Pauline, 
That  is  not  love  ! 

Pauline.  Thou  wrong'st  me,  cruel  Prince  ? 


1  Reflecting.     Compare  III.,  ii.  (page  411)  and  Richelieu,  I.,  i.  (page  450) 

27 


400  BULIVER-LYTTON.  [act  n. 

At  first,  in  truth,  I  might  not  have  been  won, 

Save  through  the  weakness  of  a  flattered  pride  ; 

But  now,  —  oh  !  trust  me,  —  couldst  thou  fall  from  power 

And  sink  — 

Mel.  As  low  as  that  poor  gardener's  son 

Who  dared  to  lift  his  eyes  to  thee  ?  — 

Pauline.  Even  then, 

Methinks  thou  wouldst  be  only  made  more  dear 
By  the  sweet  thought  that  I  could  prove  how  deep 
Is  woman's  love  1     We  are  like  the  insects,  caught 
By  the  poor  glittering  of  a  garish  flame  ;  1 
But,  oh,  the  wings  once  scorch'd,  the  brightest  star 
Lures  us  no  more  ;  and  by  the  fatal  light 
We  cling  till  death  ! 

Mel.  Angel!    [Aside.-]  O  conscience  !  conscience! 

It  must  not  be ;  —  her  love  hath  grown  a  torture 
WTorse  than  her  hate.     I  will  at  once  to  Beauseant, 
And  —  ha  !  he  comes.     Sweet  love,  one  moment  leave  me. 
1  have  business  with  these  gentlemen  —  I  —  I 
Will  forthwith  join  you. 

Pauline.  Do  not  tarry  long !  [Exit. 

Enter  Beauskaxt  and  Glavis. 

Mel.  Release  me  from  my  oath,  —  I  will  not  marry 
her! 

Beau.     Then  thou  art  perjured. 

Mel.  No,  I  was  not  in  my  senses  when  I  swore  to  thee  to 
marry  her  !  I  was  blind  to  all  but  her  scorn  !  —  deaf  to  all  but 
my  passion  and  my  rage  !  Give  me  back  my  poverty  and  my 
honour ! 

Beau.  It  is  too  late,  — you  must  marry  her!  and  this  day. 
I  have  a  story  already  coined,  and  sure  to  pass  current.  This 
Damas  suspects  thee, — he  will  set  the  police  to  work;  —  thou 
wilt  be  detected  —  Pauline  will  despise  and  execrate  thee. 
Thou  wilt  be  sent  to  the  common  gaol  as  a  swindler. 

Mel.     fiend ! 


1  "  Maidens,  like  moths,  are  ever  caught  by  glare." 

liYKON,  Childe  Harold,  I.,  ix.,  S, 
28 


scene  i.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  401 

Beau.  And  in  the  heat  of  the  girl's  resentment  (you  know  of 
what  resentment  is  capable)  and  the  parents'  shame,  she  will 
be  induced  to  marry  the  first  that  offers  —  even  perhaps  your 
humble  servant. 

Mel.  You  !  No  ;  that  were  worse  —  for  thou  hast  no  mercy  ! 
I  will  marry  her —  I  will  keep  my  oath.  Quick,  then,  with  the 
damnable  invention  thou  art  hatching;  —  quick,  if  thou  wouldst 
not  have  me  strangle  thee  or  myself. 

Gla.  What  a  tiger  !  Too  fierce  for  a  prince  ;  —  he  ought  to 
have  been  the  Grand  Turk.1 

Beau,     Enough  —  I  will  despatch  ;  be  prepared. 

[Exeunt  Beauseant  and  Gla  vis. 

Enter  Dam  as  with  two  swords. 

Damas.  Now,  then,  sir,  the  ladies  are  no  longer  your  excuse. 
I  have  brought  you  a  couple  of  dictionaries  ;  let  us  see  if  your 
Highness  can  find  out  the  Latin  for  bilbo!1 

Mel.     Away,  sir!  I  am  in  no  humour  for  jesting. 

Damas.  I  see  you  understand  something  of  the  grammar ; 
you  decline  the  noun-substantive  "  small-sword "  with  great 
ease;  but  that  won't  do  — you  must  take  a  lesson  in  parsing? 

Mel.     Fool ! 

Damas.  Sir,  as  sons  take  after  their  mother,  so  the  man  who 
calls  me  a  fool  insults  the  lady  who  bore  me  ;  there's  no  escape 
for  you  —  fight  you  shall,  or  — 

Mel.     Oh,  enough  !  enough! — take  your  ground. 

[They  fight ;  Damas  is  disarmed.     Melnotte  takes 
up  the  sword  and  returns  it  to  Damas  respectfully. 
A  just  punishment  to  the  brave  soldier  who  robs  the  State  of 
its  best  property  —  the  sole  right  to  his  valour  and  his  life. 

Damas.  Sir,  you  fence  exceedingly  well ;  you  must  be  a  man 
of  honour  —  I  don't  care  a  jot  whether  you  are  a  prince  ;  but 
a  man  who  has  carte  and  tierce  4  at  his  fingers^nds  must  be  a 
gentleman. 

Mel.  [aside].     Gentleman  !     Ay,  I   was  a  gentleman  before 


1  The  Sultan  of  Turkey. 

2  A  fine  sword,  named  from  Bilbao,  Spain. 

3  A  pun  on  the  grammatical  term  parsing  and  the  fencing  term  passing. 
i  Fencing  terms. 

26  29 


402  BULWER-LYTTON.  [act  11. 

I  turned  conspirator  ;  for  honest  men  are  the  gentlemen  of  Na- 
ture !     Colonel,  they  tell  me  you  rose  from  the  ranks. 

Damns.     I  did. 

Mel.     And  in  two  years  ! 

Damas.  It  is  true  ;  that's  no  wonder  in  our  army  at  present. 
Why,  the  oldest  general  in  the  service  is  scarcely  thirty,  and  we 
have  some  of  two-and-twenty. 

Mel.     Two-and-twenty  ! 

Damas.  Yes ;  in  the  French  army,  now  a  days,  promotion  is 
not  a  matter  of  purchase.  We  are  all  heroes,  because  we  may 
be  all  generals.  We  have  no  fear  of  the  cypress,  because  we 
may  all  hope  for  the  laurel. 

Mel.  A  general  at  two-and-twenty  !  [turning  away]  —  Sir,  I 
may  ask  you  a  favour  one  of  these  days. 

Damas.  Sir,  I  shall  be  proud  to  grant  it.  It  is  astonishing 
how  much  I  like  a  man  after  I've  fought  with  him. 

[Hides  the  swords. 

Enter  Madame  Deschappelles  and  Beauseant. 

Mme.  Deschap.  Oh,  prince,  —  prince  !  —  What  do  I  hear  ? 
You  must  fly  —  you  must  quit  us ! 

Mel.     I  !  — 

Beau.  Yes,  prince  :  read  this  letter,  just  received  from  my 
friend  at  Paris,  one  of  the  Directory;  they  suspect  you  of  de- 
signs against  the  Republic  :  they  are  very  suspicious  of  princes, 
and  your  family  take  part  with  the  Austrians.  Knowing  that  I 
introduced  your  Highness  at  Lyons,  my  friend  writes  to  me  to 
say  that  you  must  quit  the  town  immediately,  or  you  will  be 
arrested,  —  thrown  into  prison,  perhaps  guillotined!  Fly!  — 
I  will  order  horses  to  your  carriage  instantly.  Fly  to  Mar- 
seilles ;  there  you  can  take  ship  to  Leghorn.1 

Mme.  Deschap.  And  what's  to  become  of  Pauline  ?  Am  I 
not  to  be  mother  to  a  princess,  after  all  ? 

Enter  Pauline  and  Monsieur  Deschappelles. 

Pauline  [throwing  herself  into  Melnotte's  arms].  You 
must  leave  us  !  —  Leave  Pauline  ! 


1  English  name  for  Livorno,  Italy. 
30 


scene  i.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  4°3 


Beau.     Not  a  moment  is  to  be  wasted. 

M.  Deschap.     I  will  go  to  the  magistrates  and  inquire  — 

Beau.  Then  he  is  lost ;  the  magistrates,  hearing  he  is  sus- 
pected, will  order  his  arrest. 

Mme.  Deschap.     And  I  shall  not  be  a  princess  dowager  !  l 

Beau.  Why  not  ?  There  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done  :  — 
send  for  the  priest  —  let  the  marriage  take  place  at  once,  and 
the  prince  carry  home  a  bride. 

Mel.     Impossible  \  — [Aside.]     Villain! 

Mme.  Deschap.     What,  lose  my  child  ? 

Beau.     And  gain  a  princess  ! 

Mme.  Deschap.  Oh,  Monsieur  Beauseant,  you  are  so  very 
kind,  it  must  be  so,  —  we  ought  not  to  be  selfish,  my  daughter's 
happiness  at  stake.  She  will  go  away,  too,  in  a  carriage  and 
six  ! 

Pauline.  Thou  art  here  still,  —  I  cannot  part  from  thee,  — 
my  heart  will  break. 

Mel.  But  thou  wilt  not  consent  to  this  hasty  union  ?  —  thou 
wilt  not  wed  an  outcast  —  a  fugitive  ? 

Pauline.  Ah  !  if  thou  art  in  danger,  who  should  share  it  but 
Pauline  ? 

Mel.  [aside].  Distraction !  —  If  the  earth  could  swallow 
me! 

M.  Deschap.  Gently!  gently!  The  settlements  —  the  con- 
tracts —  my  daughter's  dowry  ! 

Mel.  The  dowry !  —  I  am  not  base  enough  for  that ;  no, 
not  one  farthing  ! 

Beau,  [to  Madame].  Noble  fellow! —  Really  your  good 
husband  is  too  mercantile  in  these  matters.  Monsieur  Deschap- 
pelles,  you  hear  his  Highness:  we  can  arrange  the  settlements 
by  proxy ;  'tis  the  way  with  people  of  quality. 

M.  Deschap.     But  — 

Mme.  Deschap.    Hold  your  tongue  !  —   Don't  expose  yourself ! 

Beau.  I  Will  bring  the  priest  in  a  trice.  Go  in  all  of  you 
and  prepare  ;  the  carriage  shall  be  at  the  door  before  the  cere- 
mony ;s  over. 

Mme.  Deschap.      Be  sure  there  are  six  horses,   Beauseant ! 


1  She  means  mother  of  a  princess. 


404  BULU 'ER '  L  ] rTTON.  [act  i i . 

You  are  very  good  to  have  forgiven  us  for  refusing  you  ;  but  you 
see  —  a  prince  ! 

Beau.  And  such  a  prince  !  Madam,  I  cannot  blush  at  the 
success  of  so  illustrious  a  rival.  —  [Aside.]  Now  will  I  follow 
them  to  die  village,  enjoy  my  triumph,  and  to-morrow,  in  the 
hour  of  thy  shame  and  grief,  I  think,  proud  girl,  thou  wilt  prefer 
even  these  arms  to  those  of  the  gardener's  son.  [Exit. 

Atmc.  Dcschap.  Come,  Monsieur  Deschappelles,  give  your 
arm  to  her  Highness  that  is  to  be. 

At.  Deschap.  I  don't  like  doing  business  in  such  a  hurry  ; 
'tis  not  the  way  with  the  house  of  Deschappelles  and  Co. 

At  me.  Deschap.  There,  now,  you  fancy  you  are  in  the 
counting-house,  don't  you?  [Bushes  him  to  Paulink. 

Ale/.  Stay,  stay,  Pauline  —  one  word.  Have  you  no  scruple, 
no  fear?     Speak  —  it  is  not  yet  too  late. 

Pauline.  When  I  loved  thee,  thy  fate  became  mine.  Tri- 
umph or  danger  —  joy  or  sorrow  —  I  am  by  thy  side. 

Damas.  Well,  well,  prince,  thou  art  a  lucky  man  to  be  so 
loved.  She  is  a  good  little  girl  in  spite  of  her  foibles  —  make 
her  as  happy  as  if  she  were  not  to  be  a  princess  [slapping  him 
on  the  shoulder].  Come,  sir,  I  wish  you  joy  —  young  —  tender 
—  lovely ;  —  zounds,  I  envy  you  ! 

Mel.   [who  has  stood  apart   in  gloomy  abstraction]. 
Do  you  ?  * 

*  On  the  stage  the  following  lines  are  added  :  — 

Do  you  ?     Wise  judges  are  we  of  each  other. 

"  Woo,  wed,  and  bear  her  home  !  "     So  runs  the  bond 

To  which  I  sold  myself,  —  and  then  —  what  then  ? 

Away  !  —  I  will  not  look  beyond  the  hour. 

Like  children  in  the  dark,  I  dare  not  face 

The  shades  that  gather  round  me  in  the  distance. 

You  envy  me  —  I  thank  you  —  you  may  read 

My  joy  upon  my  brow  —  I  thank  you,  sir  ! 

If  hearts  had  audible  language,  you  would  hear 

What  mine  would  answer  when  you  talk  of  envyf 


32 


scene  r.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  405 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.  —  The  exterior  of  the  Golden  Lion  —  time,  twi- 
light.    The  moon  rises  during  the  scene. 

Enter  Landlord  and  his  Daughter  from  the  Inn. 

Land.  Ha  —  ha  —  ha !  Well,  I  never  shall  get  over  it.  Our 
Claude  is  a  prince  with  a  vengeance  now.  His  carriage  breaks 
down  at  my  inn  —  ha  —  ha  ! 

fa  nut.  And  what  airs  the  young  lady  gives  herself !  "Is  this 
the  best  room  you  have,  young  woman  ?  "  with  such  a  toss  of 
the  head. 

Land.  Well,  get  in,  Janet;  get  in  and  see  to  the  supper: 
the  servants  must  sup  before  they  go  back.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Beauseant  and  Glavis. 

Bean.  You  see  our  princess  is  lodged  at  last  —  one  stage 
more,  and  she'll  be  at  her  journey's  end  —  the  beautiful  palace 
at  the  foot  of  the  Alps  !  —  ha  —  ha  ! 

Gla.  Faith,  I  pity  the  poor  Pauline  —  especially  if  she's  going 
to  sup  at  the  Golden  Lion.  [Makes  a  wry  face.]  I  shall  never 
forget  that  cursed  ragout. 

Enter  Melnotte  from  the  Inn. 

Beau.  Your  servant,  my  prince  ;  you  reigned  most  worthily. 
I  condole  with  you  on  your  abdication.  I  am  afraid  that  your 
Highness's  retinue  are  not  very  faithful  servants.  I  think  they 
will  quit  you  in  the  moment  of  your  fall  —  'tis  the  fate  of  great- 
ness.1 But  you  are  welcome  to  your  fine  clothes  —  also  the 
diamond  snuff-box,  which  Louis  XIV.  gave  to  your  great-great- 
grandmother. 

Gla.  And  the  ring,  with  which  your  grandfather  the  Doge 
of  Venice  married  the  Adriatic2 

Mel.  I  have  kept  my  oath,  gentlemen  —  say,  have  I  kept 
my  oath? 


1  "  Authority  forgets  a  dying  king." 

Tennyson,  Passing  of  Arthur,  289. 
2  See  Act  II.,  Scene  i.  (page  396),  and  note. 

33 


406  BULWER-LYTTON.  [act  III. 

Beau,     Most  religiously. 

Mel.  Then  you  have  done  with  me  and  mine  —  away  with 
you ! 

Beau.     How,  knave  ? 

Mel.  Look  you,  our  bond  is  over.  Proud  conquerors  that 
we  are,  we  have  won  the  victory  over  a  simple  girl  —  com- 
promised her  honour  —  embittered  her  life  —  blasted,  in  their 
very  blossoms,  all  the  flowers  of  her  youth.  This  is  your  tri- 
umph,—  it  is  my  shame!  [Turns  to  Beauseant].  Enjoy  thy 
triumph,  but  not  in  my  sight.  I  was  her  betrayer — I  am  her 
protector  !  Cross  but  her  path  —  one  word  of  scorn,  one  look 
of  insult  —  nay,  but  one  quiver  of  that  mocking  lip,  and  I  will 
teach  thee  that  bitter  word  thou  hast  graven  eternally  in  this 
heart  —  Repentance  ! 

Beau.     His  Highness  is  most  grandiloquent. 

Mel.  Highness  me  no  more!  Beware!  Remorse  has 
made  me  a  new  being.  Away  with  you  !  There  is  danger  in 
me.     Away ! 

Gla.  [aside].  He's  an  awkward  fellow  to  deal  with :  come 
away,  Beauseant. 

Beau.  I  know  the  respect  due  to  rank.  Adieu,  my  prince. 
Any  commands  at  Lyons  ?  Yet  hold  —  I  promised  you  200 
louis  on  your  wedding-day;  here  they  are. 

Mel.  [dashing  the  purse  to  the  ground].  I  gave  you  revenge, 
I  did  not  sell  it.  Take  up  your  silver,  Judas  ;  take  it.  —  Ay, 
it  is  fit  you  should  learn  to  stoop. 

Beau.  You  will  beg  my  pardon  for  this  some  day.  [Aside  to 
Glavis.]  Come  to  my  chateau  —  I  shall  return  hither  to- 
morrow, to  learn  how  Pauline  likes  her  new  dignity. 

Mel.     Are  you  not  gone  yet  ? 

Beau.     Your  Highness's  most  obedient,  most  faithful  — 

Gla.     And  most  humble  servants.     Ha!  ha! 

[Exeunt  Beauseant  and  Glavis. 

Mel.  Thank  Heaven  I  had  no  weapon,  or  I  should  have  slain 
them.  Wretch  !  what  can  I  say  ?  Where  turn  ?  On  all  sides 
mockery  —  the  very  boors  within  — [Laughter from  the  Inn.~\  — 
'Sdeath,  if  even  in  this  short  absence  the  exposure  should  have 
chanced.  I  will  call  her.  We  will  go  hence.  I  have  already 
sent  one  I  can  trust  to  my  mother's  house.     There,  at  least, 


scene  I.]  THE   LADY  OF  LYOXS.  4°7 


none   can  insult  her    agony  —  gloat  upon  her   shame!     There 
alone  must  she  learn  what  a  villain  she  has  sworn  to  love. 

As  he  turns  to  the  door,  enter  Pauline  from  the  Inn. 

Pauline.  Ah  !  my  lord,  what  a  place  !  I  never  saw  such 
rude  people.  They  stare  and  wink  so.  I  think  the  veryjsight 
of  a  prince,  though  he  travels  incognito,  turns  their  honest 
heads.  What  a  pity  the  carriage  should  break  down  in  such 
a  spot !  You  are  not  well  —  the  drops  stand  on  your  brow  — 
your  hand  is  feverish. 

Mel.     Nay,  it  is  but  a  passing  spasm  ;  the  air  — 

Pauline.     Is  not  the  soft  air  of  your  native  south  — 
How  pale  he  is  !  —  indeed  thou  art  not  well. 
Where  are  our  people  ?     I  will  call  them. 

Mel.  Hold ! 

I  —  I  am  well. 

Pauline.  Thou  art !  —      Ah  !  now  I  know  it. 

Thou  fanciest,  my  kind  lord —  I  know  thou  dost  — 
Thou  fanciest  these  rude  walls,  these  rustic  gossips, 
Brick'd  floors,  sour  wine,  coarse  viands,  vex  Pauline ; 
And  so  they  might,  but  thou  art  by  my  side, 
And  I  forget  all  else. 

Enter  Landlord,  the  Servants  peeping  and  laughing  over 

his  shoulder. 

Land.  My  lord  — your  Highness  — 

Will  your  most  noble  Excellency  choose  — 

Mel.     Begone,  sir  !  [Exit  Landlord  laughing. 

Pauline.  How  could  they  have  learn'd  thy  rank? 

One's  servants  are  so  vain  !  —  nay,  let  it  not 
Chafe  thee,  sweet  prince  !  —  a  few  short  days  and  we 
Shall  see  thy  palace  by  its  lake  of  silver, 
And  —  nay,  nay,  spendthrift,  is  thy  wealth  of  smiles 
Already  drained,  or  dost  thou  play  the  miser  ? 

Mel.     Thine  eyes  would  call  up  smiles  in  deserts,  fair  one. 
Let  us  escape  these  rustics  :  close  at  hand 
There  is  a  cot,  where  I  have  bid  prepare 
Our  evening  lodgment  —  a  rude,  homely  roof, 
But  honest,  where  our  welcome  will  not  be 

3S 


4-08  BUL  WER-L  YTTON.  Pact  hi. 

Made  torture  by  the  vulgar  eyes  and  tongues 
That  are  as  death  to  Love  !     A  heavenly  night ! 
The  wooing  air  and  the  soft  moon  invite  us. 
Wilt  walk  ?     I  pray  thee,  now,  —  I  know  the  path, 
Ay,  every  inch  of  it ! 

Pauline.  What,  thou  !  methought 

Thou  wert  a  stranger  in  these  parts?     Ah,  truant, 
Some  village  beauty  lured  thee  ;  —  thou  art  now 
Grown  constant  ? 

Mel.  Trust  me. 

Pauline.  Princes  are  so  changeful ! 

Mel.     Come,  dearest,  come. 

Pauline.  Shall  I  not  call  our  people     , 

To  light  us  ? 

Mel.  Heaven  will  lend  its  stars  for  torches ! 

It  is  not  far. 

Pauline.       The  night  breeze  chills  me. 

Mel.  Nay, 

Let  me  thus  mantle  thee ;  —  it  is  not  cold. 

Pauline.     Never  beneath  thy  smile  ! 

Mel.  [aside],  O  Heaven  !  forgive  me ! 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  II.  —  Melnotte's  cottage  —  Widow  bustling  about  — 
a  table  spread  for  supper. 

Widow.  So,  I  think  that  looks  very  neat.  He  sent  me  a 
line,  so  blotted  that  I  can  scarcely  read  it,  to  say  he  would  be 
here  almost  immediately.  She  must  have  loved  him  well 
indeed  to  have  forgotten  his  birth  ;  for  though  he  was  introduced 
to  her  in  disguise,  he  is  too  honourable  not  to  have  revealed  to 
her  the  artifice,  which  her  love  only  could  forgive.  Well,  I  do 
not  wonder  at  it ;  for  though  my  son  is  not  a  prince,  he  ought 
to  be  one,  and  that's  almost  as  good.  [Knock  at  the  door.~\ 
Ah  !  here  they  are. 

Enter  Melnotte  and  Pauline. 

Widow.     Oh,  my  boy  —  the  pride  of  my  heart  ! — welcome, 
welcome!     I  beg  pardon,  ma'am,  but  I  do  love  him  so ! 
36 


scene  ii.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  4°9 

Pauline.  Good  woman,  I  really  —why  prince,  what  is  this  ? 
—  does  the  old  lady  know  you  ?  Oh,  I  guess,  you  have  done 
her  some  service.     Another  proof  of  your  kind  heart ;  is  it  not  ? 

Mel.     Of  my  kind  heart,  ay  ! 

Pauline.     So  you  know  the  prince  ? 

Widow.  Know  him,  madam?—  Ah,  I  begin  to  fear  it 
is  you  who  know  him  not ! 

Pauline.  Do  you  think  she  is  mad?  Can  we  stay  here, 
my  lord  ?     I  think  there's  something  very  wild  about  her. 

Mel.  Madam,  I — no,  I  cannot  tell  her;  my  knees  knock 
together:  what  a  coward  is  a  man  who  has  lost  his  honour!1 
Speak  to  her— speak  to  her  [to  his  mother]  — te\\  her  that  — 

0  Heaven,  that  I  were  dead ! 

Pauline.  How  confused  he  looks!  —  this  strange  place!  — 
this  woman  —  what  can  it  mean  ?  —  I  half  suspect —  Who  are 
you,  madam  !  —  who  are  you  ?  can't  you  speak  ?  are  you  struck 
dumb? 

Widow.  Claude,  you  have  not  deceived  her? —  Ah,  shame 
upon  you !  I  thought  that,  before  you  went  to  the  altar,  she 
was  t®  have  known  all. 

Pauline.     All !  what? —     My  blood  freezes  in  my  veins  ! 

Widow.  Poor  lady  !  —  dare  I  tell  her,  Claude  ?  [Melnotte 
makes  a  sign  of  assent.']  Know  you  not  then,  madam,  that  this 
young  man  is  of  poor  though  honest  parents  ?  Know  you  not 
that  you  are  wedded  to  my  son,  Claude  Melnotte? 

Pauline.  Your  son!  hold  —  hold!  do  not  speak  to  me. — 
[Approaches  Melnotte,  and  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm. .]  Is 
this  a  jest  ?  is  it  ?  I  know  it  is,  only  speak  —  one  word  —  one 
look  —  one  smile.     I  cannot  believe  —  I  who  loved  thee  so  — 

1  cannot  believe  that  thou  art  such  a  —     No,  I  will  not  wrong 
thee  by  a  harsh  word  —     Speak  ! 

Met.     Leave  us  —  have  pity  on  her,  on  me  :  leave  us. 
Widow.     Oh,  Claude,  that  I  should  live  to  see  thee  bowed 
by  shame  !  thee  of  whom  I  was  so  proud  ! 

[Exit  by  the  staircase. 
Pauline.     Her  son  —  her  son ! 
Mel.  Now,  lady,  hear  me. 


1  "  Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all."  — Hamlet,  III.,  i..  83. 

37 


4 1 0  BUL  WER-L  YTTON.  [act  hi. 

Pauline.  Hear  thee  ! 

Ay,  speak  —  her  son !  have  fiends  a  parent  ?  speak, 
That  thou  mayst  silence  curses  —  speak  ! 

Mel.  No,  curse  me: 

Thy  curse  would  blast  me  less  than  thy  forgiveness. 

Pauline  [laughing  wihily~\.     "  This  is  thy  palace,  where  the 
perfumed  light 
Steals  through  the  mist  of  alabaster  lamps, 
And  every  air  is  heavy  with  the  sighs 
Of  orange-groves,  and  music  from  sweet  lutes, 
And  murmurs  of  low  fountains,  that  gush  forth 
T  the  midst  of  roses  !  "     Dost  thou  like  the  picture?  * 
This  is  my  bridal  home,  and  thou  my  bridegroom. 

0  fool  —  O  dupe  —  O  wretch  !  —  I  see  it  all  — 
The  by-word  and  the  jeer  of  every  tongue 

In  Lyons.     Hast  thou  in  thy  heart  one  touch 
Of  human  kindness  ?  if  thou  hast,  why,  kill  me, 
And  save  thy  wife  from  madness.     No,  it  cannot  — 
It  cannot  be  :  this  is  some  horrid  dream  : 

1  shall  wake  soon.  —  [Touching  hint.']     Art  flesh?  art  man?  or 

but 
The  shadows  seen  in  sleep?     It  is  too  real. 
What  have  I  done  to  thee  ?  how  sinn'd  against  thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  crush  me  thus  ? 

Mel.  Pauline,  by  pride 

Angels  have  fallen  ere  thy  time  :  2  by  pride  — 
That  sole  alloy  of  thy  most  lovely  mould  — 
The  evil  spirit  of  a  bitter  love, 


1  She  is  quoting  from  Claude's  description  in  Act  II.,  Scene  i  (page  399). 
2  "  In  pride,  in  reas'ning  pride,  our  error  lies  ; 
All  quit  their  sphere,  and  rush  into  the  skies. 
Pride  still  is  aiming  at  the  blest  abodes, 
Men  would  be  angels,  angels  would  be  gods. 
Aspiring  to  be  gods,  if  angels  fell, 
Aspiring  to  be  angels,  men  rebel." 

Pope,  Essay  on  Man,  I.,  123-8. 

"  Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition : 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels." 

Shakespeare,  Henry  VIII.,  III.,  ii.,  440-1. 
18 


scene  ii.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  4 1 1 

And  a  revengeful  heart,  had  power  upon  thee. 

From  my  first  years  my  soul  was  fill'd  with  thee : 

I  saw  thee  midst  the  flow'rs  the  lowly  boy 

Tended,  unmark'd  by  thee  — a  spirit  of  bloom, 

And  joy,  and  freshness,  as  if  Spring  itself 

Were  made  a  living  thing,  and  wore  thy  shape! 

I  saw  thee,  and  the  passionate  heart  of  man 

Enter'd  the  breast  of  the  wild-dreaming  boy. 

And  from  that  hour  I  grew  —  what  to  the  last 

I  shall  be  — thine  adorer  1     Well,  this  love 

Vain,  frantic,  guilty,  if  thou  wilt,  became 

A  fountain  of  ambition  and  bright  hope ; 

I  thought  of  tales  that  by  the  winter  hearth 

Old  gossips  tell  —  how  maidens  sprung  from  kings 

Have  stoop'd  from  their  high  sphere;  how  love,  like  death, 

Levels  all  ranks,  and  lays  the  shepherd's  crook 

Beside  the  sceptre.     Thus  I  made  my  home 

In  the  soft  palace  of  a  fairy  Future  ! 

My  father  died  ;  and  I,  the  peasant-born, 

Was  my  own  lord.     Then  did  I  seek  to  rise  \ 

Out  of  the  prison  of  my  mean  estate  ; 

And,  with  such  jewels  as  the  exploring  mind 

Brings  from  the  caves  of  knowledge,  buy  my  ransom 

From  those  twin  gaolers  of  the  daring  heart  — 

Low  birth  and  iron  fortune.     Thy  bright  image, 

Glass'd  in  my  soul,  took  all  the  hues  of  glory, 

And  lured  me  on  to  those  inspiring  toils 

By  which  man  masters  men !     For  thee  I  grew 

A  midnight  student  o'er  the  dreams  of  sages. 

For  thee  I  sought  to  borrow  from  each  grace, 

And  every  muse,  such  attributes  as  lend 

Ideal  charms  to  love.     I  thought  of  thee, 

And  passion  taught  me  poesy  —  of  thee, 

And  on  the  painter's  canvas  grew  the  life 

Of  beauty  !     Art  became  the  shadow 

Of  the  dear  starlight  of  thy  haunting  eyes  ! 

Men  call'd  me  vain  —  some  mad —  I  heeded  not; 

But  still  toil'd  on  —  hoped  on  —  for  it  was  sweet, 

If  not  to  win,  to  feel  more  worthy  thee. 

39 


412  BUL  WER-L  YTTON.  [act  in. 

Pauline.     Has  he  a  magic  to  exorcise  hate  ? 

Mel.     At  last,  in  one  mad  hour,  I  dared  to  pour 
The  thoughts  that  burst  their  channels  into  song, 
And  sent  them  to  thee  —  such  a  tribute,  lady, 
As  beauty  rarely  scorns,  even  from  the  meanest. 
The  name  —  appended  by  the  burning  heart 
That  long'd  to  show  its  idol  what  bright  things 
It  had  created  —  yea,  the  enthusiast's  name, 
That  should  have  been  thy  triumph,  was  thy  scorn ! 
That  very  hour  —  when  passion,  turn'd  to  wrath, 
Resembled  hatred  most  —  when  thy  disdain 
Made  my  whole  soul  a  chaos  —  in  that  hour 
The  tempters  found  me  a  revengeful  tool 
For  their  revenge !     Thou  hadst  trampled  on  the  worm  — 
It  turn'd  and  stung  thee  ! 

Pauline,  Love,  sir,  hath  no  sting. 

What  was  the  slight  of  a  poor  powerless  girl 
To  the  deep  wrong  of  this  most  vile  revenge? 
Oh,  how  I  loved  this  man  !  —  a  serf !  —  a  slave  ! 

Mel.     Hold,  lady  !     No,  not  slave  !     Despair  is  free ! 
I  will  not  tell  thee  of  the  throes  —  the  struggles  — 
The  anguish  —  the  remorse  :  no,  let  it  pass  ! 
And  let  me  come  to  such  most  poor  atonement 
Yet  in  my  power.     Pauline  !  — 

[Approaching  her  with  great  emotion,  and  about  to 
take  her  hand. 

Pauline.  No,  touch  me  not! 

I  know  my  fate.     You  are,  by  law,  my  tyrant ; 
And  I  —  O  Heaven  !  a  peasant's  wife  !     I'll  work  — 
Toil  —  drudge  —  do  what  thou  wilt  —  but  touch  me  not ; 
Let  my  wrongs  make  me  sacred  ! 

Mel.  Do  not  fear  me. 

Thou  dost  not  know  me,  madam :  at  the  altar 
My  vengeance  ceased  —  my  guilty  oath  expired  ! 
Henceforth,  no  image  of  some  marble  saint, 
Niched  in  cathedral  aisles,  is  hallow'd  more 
From  the  rude  hand  of  sacrilegious  wrong. 
I  am  thy  husband  —  nay,  thou  need'st  not  shudder;  — 
Here,  at  thy  feet,  I  lay  a  husband's  rights. 
40 


SCENE  I.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  4*3 


A  marriage  thus  unholy  —  unfulfill'd  — 
A  bond  of  fraud  —  is,  by  the  laws  of  France, 
Made  void  and  null.     To-night  sleep  —  sleep  in  peace. 
To-morrow,  pure  and  virgin  as  this  morn 
I  bore  thee,  bathed  in  blushes,  from  the  shrine, 
Thy  father's  arms  shall  take  thee  to  thy  home. 
The  law  shall  do  thee  justice,  and  restore 
Thy  right  to  bless  another  with  thy  love. 
And  when  thou  art  happy,  and  hast  half  forgot 
Him  who  so  loved  —  so  wrong'd  thee,  think  at  least 
Heaven  left  some  remnant  of  the  angel  still 
In  that  poor  peasant's  nature  !     Ho  !  my  mother ! 

Enter  Widow. 

Conduct  this  lady —  (she  is  not  my  wife ; 

She  is  our  guest,  —  our  honour'd  guest,  my  mother)  — 

To  the  poor  chamber,  where  the  sleep  of  virtue 

Never,  beneath  my  father's  honest  roof, 

Ev'n  villains  dared  to  mar !     Now,  lady,  now, 

I  think  thou  wilt  believe  me.     Go,  my  mother! 

Widow.     She  is  not  thy  wife  ! 

Mel.  Hush,  hush  !  for  mercy's  sake  \ 

Speak  not,  but  go. 

[Widow  ascends  the  stairs ;    Pauline  follows  weep- 
ing—  turns  to  look  back. 

Mel.  [sinking  down].  All  angels  bless  and  guard  her! 


ACT   IV. 

Scene  I.  —  The  cottage  as  before  —  Melnotte  seated  before 
a  table  —  writiftg  implements,  6°r.  —  (Day  breaking.) 

Mel.  Hush,  hush!  —  she  sleeps  at  last!  —  thank  Heaven, 
for  a  while  she  forgets  even  that  I  live !  Her  sobs,  which  have 
gone  to  my  heart  the  whole,  long,  desolate  night,  have  ceased ! 
—  all  calm  —  all  still!     I  will  go  now;   I  will  send  this  letter  to 

41 


4 1 4  BUL  WER-L  YTTON.  [ act  i v . 

Pauline's  father:  when  he  arrives,  I  will  place  in  his  hands  my 
own  consent  to  the  divorce,  and  then,  O  France !  my  country ! 
accept  among  thy  protectors,  thy  defenders  — the  Peasant's 
Son!  Our  country  is  less  proud  than  custom,  and  does  not 
refuse  the  blood,  the  heart,  the  right  hand  of  the  poor  man. 

Enter  Widow. 

Widow.  My  son,  thou  hast  acted  ill;  but  sin  brings  its  own 
punishment.  In  the  hour  of  thy  remorse,  it  is  not  for  a  mother 
to  reproach  thee. 

~~^Mel.  What  is  past  is  past.  There  is  a  future  left  to  all  men 
who  have  the  virtue  to  repent  and  the  energy  to  atone.  Thou 
shalt  be  proud  of  thy  son  yet.  Meanwhile,  remember  this  poor 
lady  has  been  grievously  injured.  For  the  sake  of  thy  son's 
conscience,  respect,  honour,  bear  with  her.  If  she  weep,  con- 
sole —  if  she  chide,  be  silent.  'Tis  but  a  little  while  more  —  I 
shall  send  an  express  fast  as  horse  can  speed  to  her  father. 
Farewell !     1  shall  return  shortly. 

Widow.  It  is  the  only  course  left  to  thee  —  thou  wert  led 
astray,  but  thou  art  not  hardened.  Thy  heart  is  right  still,  as 
ever  it  was  when,  in  thy  most  ambitious  hopes,  thou  wert  never 
ashamed  of  thy  poor  mother. 

Mel.     Ashamed  of  thee !     No,  if  I  yet  endure,  yet  live,  yet 

hope  —  it  is  only  because  I  would  not  die  till  I  have  redeemed 

the  noble  heritage  I  have  lost  —  the  heritage  I  took  unstained 

from  thee  and  my  dead  father  —  a  proud  conscience  and  an 

Jionest  name.     I  shall  win  them  back  yet  —  Heaven  bless  you  ! 

[Ex'it. 

Widow.     My  dear  Claude  !     How  my  heart  bleeds  for  him. 

Pauline  looks  down  from  above,  and  after  a  pause  descends. 

Pauline.  Not  here!  —  he  spares  me  that  pain  at  least:  so 
far  he  is  considerate  — yet  the  place  seems  still  more  desolate 
without  him.  Oh,  that  I  could  hate  him  —  the  gardener's  son  ! 
—  and  yet  how  nobly  he  —  no  —  no  —  no,  I  will  not  be  so  mean 
a  thing  as  to  forgive  him ! 

Widow.  Good  morning,  madam ;  I  would  have  waited  on 
you  if  I  had  known  you  were  stirring. 

4* 


scene  i.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYDNS.  4' 5 

Pauline.  It  is  no  matter,  ma'am  —  your  son's  wife  ought  to 
wait  on  herself. 

Widow.  My  son's  wife  —  let  not  that  thought  vex  you, 
madam — he  tells  me  that  you  will  have  your  divorce.  And 
I  hope  I  shall  live  to  see  him  smile  again.  There  are  maidens 
in  this  village,  young  and  fair,  madam,  who  may  yet  console 
him. 

Pauline.  I  dare  say  —  they  are  very  welcome  —  and  when 
the  divorce  is  got  —  he  will  marry  again.     I  am  sure  I  hope  so. 

[  Weeps. 

Widow.  He  could  have  married  the  richest  girl  in  the  prov- 
ince, if  he  had  pleased  it ;  but  his  head  was  turned,  poor  child  ! 
he  could  think  of  nothing  but  you.  [  Weeps. 

Pauline.     Don't  weep,  mother. 

Widow.  Ah,  he  has  behaved  very  ill,  I  know,  but  love  is  so 
headstrong  in  the  young.     Don't  weep,  madam. 

Pauline.     So,  as  you  were  saying  —  go  on. 

Widow.  Oh,  I  cannot  excuse  him,  ma'am  —  he  was  not  in 
his  right  senses. 

Pauline.  But  he  always  —  always  [sobbing]  loved  —  loved 
me  then? 

Widow.  He  thought  of  nothing  else.  See  here  —  he  learnt 
to  paint  that  he  might  take  your  likeness.  {Uncovers  the  pic- 
ture.'] But  that's  all  over  now —  I  trust  you  have  cured  him  of 
his  folly ;  —  but,  dear  heart,  you  have  had  no  breakfast ! 

Pauline.     I  can't  take  anything  —  don't  trouble  yourself.- 

Widow.  Nay,  madam,  be  persuaded ;  a  little  coffee  will 
refresh  you.  Our  milk  and  eggs  are  excellent.  I  will  get  out 
Claude's  coffee-cup  —  it  is  of  real  Sevres  ; 1  he  saved  up  all  his 
money  to  buy  it  three  years  ago,  because  the  name  of  Pauline 
was  inscribed  on  it. 

Pauline.  Three  years  ago  !  Poor  Claude  !—  Thank  you  ; 
I  think  I  will  have  some  coffee.  Oh  !  if  he  were  but  a  poor 
gentleman,  even  a  merchant:  but  a  gardener's  son  —  and  what 
a  home !  —     Oh  no,  it  is  too  dreadful ! 

[They  seat  themselves  at  the  table,  Beauseant  opens 
the  lattice  and  looks  in. 


1  Porcelain  made  at  Sevres  near  Paris. 

43 


41 6  BULWER-LYTTON.  [act  iv. 

Beau.  So  —  so  —  the  coast  is  clear  !  I  saw  Claude  in  the 
lane  —  I  shall  have  an  excellent  opportunity. 

[Shuts  the  lattice  and  knocks  at  the  door. 

Pauline  [starting].  Can  it  be  my  father  ?  —  he  has  not  sent 
for  him  yet  ?  No,  he  cannot  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  rid 
of  me. 

Widow.  It  is  not  time  for  your  father  to  arrive  yet ;  it  must 
be  some  neighbour. 

Pauline.     Don't  admit  any  one. 

Widow  opens  the  door,  Beau se ant  pushes  her  aside 
a/id  enters. 

Ha!  Heavens!  that  hateful  Beauseant !     This  is  indeed  bitter! 

Beau.  Good  morning,  madam  !  O  widow,  your  son  begs 
you  will  have  the  goodness  to  go  to  him  in  the  village — he 
wants  to  speak  to  you  on  particular  business  ;  you'll  find  him  at 
the  inn,  or  the  grocer's  shop,  or  the  baker's,  or  at  some  other 
friend's  of  your  family  —  make  haste. 

Pauline.     Don't  leave  me,  mother  !  —  don't  leave  me. 

Beau,  [with  great  respect\  Be  not  alarmed,  madam.  Be- 
lieve me  your  friend — your  servant. 

Pauline.  Sir,  I  have  no  fear  of  you,  even  in  this  house  ! 
Go,  madam,  if  your  son  wishes  it ;  I  will  not  contradict  his 
commands  whilst,  at  least,  he  has  still  the  right  to  be  obeyed. 

Widow.  I  don't  understand  this ;  however,  I  shan't  be  Jong 
gone.  [Exit. 

Pauline.  Sir,  I  divine  the  object  of  your  visit  —  you  wish  to 
exult  in  the  humiliation  of  one  who  humbled  you.  Be  it  so  ;  I 
am  prepared  to  endure  all  —  even  your  presence  ! 

Beau.  You  mistake  me,  madam  —  Pauline,  you  mistake 
me  !  I  come  to  lay  my  fortune  at  your  feet.  You^must  already 
be  disenchanted  with  this  impostor ;  these  walls  are  not  worthy 
to  be  hallowed  by  your  beauty  !  Shall  that  form  be  clasped  in 
the  arms  of  a  base-born  peasant  ?  Beloved,  beautiful  Pauline  ! 
fly  with  me  —  my  carriage  waits  without  —  I  will  bear  you  to  a 
home  more  meet  for  your  reception.  Wealth,  luxury,  station  — 
all  shall  yet  be  yours.  I  forget  your  past  disdain  —  I  remem- 
ber only  your  beauty  and  my  unconquerable  love  ! 

Pauline.     Sir !  leave  this  house  —  it  is  humble ;  but  a  hus- 

44 


scene  i.]  THE   LADY  OF  LYONS.  417 

band's  roof,  however  lowly,  is,  in  the  eyes  of  God  and  man,  the 
temple  of  a  wife's  honour  !  Know  that  I  would  rather  starve  — 
yes — with  him  who  has  betrayed  me,  than  accept  your  law- 
ful hand,  even  were  you  the  prince  whose  name  he  bore  !  — 
Go. 

Beau.     What,  is  not  your  pride  humbled  yet? 

Pauline.      Sir,    what   was   pride   in   prosperity   in   affliction"^ 
becomes  virtue.  t-^— / 

Beau.  Look  round  :  these  rugged  floors  —  these  homely 
walls  —  this  wretched  struggle  of  poverty  for  comfort  —  think 
of  this !  and  contrast  with  such  a  picture  the  refinement,  the 
luxury,  the  pomp,  that  the  wealthiest  gentleman  of  Lyons  offers 
to  the  loveliest  lady.     Ah,  hear  me  ! 

Pauline.  Oh  !  my  father  !  —  why  did  I  leave  you  ?  —  why 
am  I  thus  friendless  ?  Sir,  you  see  before  you  a  betrayed,  in- 
jured, miserable  woman  !  —  respect  her  anguish  ! 

[Melnotte  opens  the  door,  silently,  and  pauses  at  the 
threshold. 

Beau.  No  !  let  me  rather  thus  console  it ;  let  me  snatch 
from  those  lips  one  breath  of  that  fragrance  which  never  should 
be  wasted  on  the  low  churl  thy  husband. 

Pauline.  Help  !  Claude  !  —  Claude  !  —  Have  I  no  protec- 
tor? 

Beau.  Be  silent  !  [showing  a  pistol '].  See,  I  do  not  come 
unprepared  even  for  violence.  I  will  brave  all  things  —  thy 
husband  and  all  his  race  —  for  thy  sake.  Thus,  then,  I  clasp 
thee  ! 

Mel.  [dashing  him  to  the  other  end  of  the  stage].  Pauline  — 
look  up,  Pauline  !  thou  art  safe. 

Beau,  [levelling  his  pistol].  Dare  you  thus  insult  a  man  of 
my  birth,  ruffian  ? 

Pauline.  Oh,  spare  him  — spare  my  husband  !  —  Beauseant 
—  Claude  —  no  —  no  —  [Faints. 

Mel.  Miserable  trickster  !  shame  upon  you  !  brave  devices 
to  terrify  a  woman  !  Coward  !  —  you  tremble  —  you  have  out- 
raged the  laws  —  you  know  that  your  weapon  is  harmless  —  you 
have  the  courage  of  the  mountebank,  not  the  bravo  !  —  Pauline, 
there  is  no  danger. 

Beau.     I   wish   thou   wert  a   gentleman  —  as  it  is,  thou  art 

27  45 


4 1 8  B  UL  WER-L  YTTON.  [act  i v . 

beneath  me. —    Good  day,  and  a  happy  honey-moon.  —  [Aside.] 
I  will  not  die  till  I  am  avenged.  [Exit. 

Mel.     I  hold  her  in  these  arms  —  the  last  embrace  ! 
Never,  ah  never  more,  shall  this  dear  head 
Be  pillovv'd  on  the  heart  that  should  have  shelter'd 
And  has  betray'd  !  —      Soft  —  soft !  one  kiss  —  poor  wretch  ! 
No  scorn  on  that  pale  lip  forbids  me  now  ! 
One  kiss  —  so  ends  all  record  of  my  crime  ! 
It  is  the  seal  upon  the  tomb  of  hope, 
By  which,  like  some  lost,  sorrowing  angel,  sits 
Sad  memory  evermore  ;  — she  breathes  —  she  moves  — 
She  wakes  to  scorn,  to  hate,  but  not  to  shudder 
Beneath  the  touch  of  my  abhorred  love.     [Places  her  on  a  seat. 
There  —  we  are  strangers  now  ! 

Pauline.  All  gone  —  all  calm  — 

Is  every  thing  a  dream  ?  thou  art  safe,  unhurt  — 
I  do  not  love  thee ;  but  —  but  I  am  woman, 
And  —  and  —  no  blood  is  spilt  ? 

Mel.  No,  lady,  no  ; 

My  guilt  hath  not  deserved  so  rich  a  blessing 
As  even  danger  in  thy  cause. 

Enter  Widow. 

Widow.  My  son,  I  have  been  everywhere  in  search  of  you ; 
why  did  you  send  for  me  ? 

Mel.     I  did  not  send  for  you. 

Widow.  No !  but  I  must  tell  you  your  express  has  re- 
turned. 

Mel.     So  soon  !  impossible  ! 

Widow.  Yes,  he  met  the  lady's  father  and  mother  on  the 
road;  they  were  going  into  the  country  on  a  visit.  Your  mes- 
senger says  that  Monsieur  Deschappelles  turned  almost  white 
with  anger  when  he  read  your  letter.  They  will  be  here  almost 
immediately.  Oh,  Claude,  Claude  !  what  will  they  do  to  you  ? 
How  I  tremble  !  Ah,  madam!  do  not  let  them  injure  him  —  if 
you  knew  how  he  doted  on  you. 

Pauline.  Injure  him  !  no,  ma'am,  be  not  afraid  ; —  my  father  ! 
how  shall  I  meet  him  ?  how  go  back  to  Lyons  ?  the  scoff  of  the 
46 


scene  i.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  419 

whole  city  !  Cruel,  cruel  Claude.  [/;/  great  agitation.]  Sir, 
you  have  acted  most  treacherously. 

Mel.     I  know  it,  madam. 

Pauline  [aside'].  If  he  would  but  ask  me  to  forgive  him  !  — 
I  never  can  forgive  you,  sir. 

Mel.     I  never  dared  to  hope  it. 

Pauline.  But  you  are  my  husband  now,  and  I  have  sworn 
to  —  to  love  you,  sir. 

Mel.  That  was  under  a  false  belief,  madam ;  Heaven  and 
the  laws  will  release  you  from  your  vow. 

Pauline.     He  will  drive  me  mad  !  if  he  were  but  less  proud 

—  if  he  would  but  ask  me  to  remain  —  hark,  hark  —  I  hear  the 
wheels  of  the  carriage  —  Sir  —  Claude,  they  are  coming  ;  have 
you  no  word  to  say  ere  it  is  too  late  ?     Quick  —  speak. 

Mel.  I  can  only  congratulate  you  on  your  release.  Behold 
your  parents ! 

Enter  Monsieur  and  Madame  Deschappelles  and 
Colonel  Damas. 

M.  Deschap.     My  child  !  my  child  ! 

Mine.  Deschap.  Oh,  my  poor  Pauline!  —  what  a  villanous 
hovel  this  is  !  Old  woman,  get  me  a  chair  —  I  shall  faint  —  I 
certainly  shall.  What  will  the  world  say?  Child,  you  have 
been  a  fool.     A  mother's  heart  is  easily  broken. 

Damas.  Ha,  ha  !  most  noble  Prince  —  I  am  sorry  to  see  a 
man  of  your  quality  in  such  a  condition ;  I  am  afraid  your 
Highness  will  go  to  the  House  of  Correction. 

Mel.     Taunt  on,  sir;  I  spared  you  when  you  were  unarmed 

—  I  am  unarmed  now.  A  man  who  has  no  excuse  for  crime  is 
indeed  defenceless  ! 

Damas.     There's  something  fine  in  the  rascal,  after  all  ! 

M.  Deschap.  Where  is  the  impostor  ?  —  Are  you  thus 
shameless,  traitor?  Can  you  brave  the  presence  of  that  girl's 
father  ? 

Mel.     Strike  me,  if  it  please  you  —  you  are  her  father. 

Pauline.  Sir  —  sir,  for  my  sake; — whatever  his  guilt,  he 
has  acted  nobly  in  atonement. 

Mine.  Deschap.     Nobly!     Are   you   mad,  girl?     I  have  no 

47 


420  BULVVER-LYTTON.  [act  iv. 

patience  with  you  —  to  disgrace  all  your  family  thus  !     Nobly! 
Oh  you  abominable,  hardened,  pitiful,  mean,  ugly  villain! 

Damas.     Ugly  !     Why,  he  was  beautiful  yesterday ! 

Pauline.  Madame,  this  is  his  roof,  and  he  is  my  husband. 
Respect  your  daughter,  or  let  blame  fall  alone  on  her. 

Mme.  Deschap.    You  —  you —    Oh,  I'm  choking. 

M.  Deschap.     Sir,   it   were  idle  to    waste    reproach    upon   a 
conscience  like  yours  —  you  renounce  all  pretensions  to  the  per- 
son of  this  lady  ? 

Mel.  I  do.  [Gives  a  paper.]  Here  is  my  consent  to  a 
divorce  —  my  full  confession  of  the  fraud  which  annuls  the 
marriage.  Your  daughter  has  been  foully  wronged  —  I  grant 
it,  sir  ;  but  her  own  lips  will  tell  you  that,  from  the  hour  in  which 
she  crossed  this  threshold,  I  returned  to  my  own  station,  and 
respected  hers.  Pure  and  inviolate,  as  when  yestermorn  you 
laid  your  hand  upon  her  head  and  blessed  her,  I  yield  her  back 
to  you.  For  myself—  I  deliver  you  for  ever  from  my  presence. 
An  outcast  and  a  criminal,  I  seek  some  distant  land,  where  I 
may  mourn  my  sin,  and  pray  for  your  daughter's  peace.  Fare- 
well —  farewell  to  you  all,  for  ever  ! 

Widow.  Claude,  Claude,  you  will  not  leave  your  poor  old 
mother?  She  does  not  disown  you  in  your  sorrow — -no,  not 
even  in  your  guilt.  No  divorce  can  separate  a  mother  from  her 
son. 

Pauline.  This  poor  widow  teaches  me  my  duty.  No, 
mother,  —  no,  for  you  are  now  my  mother  also  !  —  nor  should  any 
law,  human  or  divine,  separate  the  wife  from  her  husband's 
sorrows.  Claude — Claude  —  all  is  forgotten  —  forgiven — I 
am  thine  for  ever  ! 

Mme.  Deschap.  What  do  I  hear? —  Come  away,  or  never 
see  my  face  again. 

M.  Deschap.  Pauline,  we  never  betrayed  you  !  —  do  you  for- 
sake us  for  him  ? 

Pauline  {going  back  to  her  father].  O  no  —  but  you  will  for- 
give him  too  ;  we  will  live  together  —  he  shall  be  your  son. 

M.  Deschap.     Never !     Cling  to  him  and  forsake  your  par- 
ents !     His  home  shall  be  yours  —  his  fortune  yours  —  his  fate 
yours  :  the  wealth  I  have  acquired  by  honest  industry  shall  never 
enrich  the  dishonest  man. 
43 


scene  i.J  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  \2\ 

Paul  inc.  And  you  would  have  a  wife  enjoy  luxury  while  a 
husband  toils  !  Claude,  take,  me ;  thou  canst  not  give  me 
wealth,  titles,  station  —  but  thou  canst  give  me  a  true  heart.  I 
will  work  for  thee,  tend  thee,  bear  with  thee,  and  never,  never 
shall  these  lips  reproach  thee  for  the  past. 

Damas.     I'll  be  hanged  if  I  am  not  going  to  blubber! 

Mel.  This  is  the  heaviest  blow  of  all !  —  What  a  heart  I 
have  wronged  !  —     Do  not  fear  me,  sir  ;  I  am  not  all  hardened 

—  I  will  not  rob  her  of  a  holier  love  than  mine.  Pauline  !  — 
angel  of  love  and  mercy!  — your  memory  shall  lead  me  back 
to  virtue  !  —  The  husband  of  a  being  so  beautiful  in  her  noble 
and  sublime  tenderness  may  be  poor  — may  be  low-born;  — 
(there  is  no  guilt  in  the  decrees  of  Providence  !)  —  but  he  should 
be  one  who  can  look  thee  in  the  face  without  a  blush,  — to  whom 
thy  love  does  not  bring  remorse,  —  who  can  fold  thee  to  his 
heart,  and  say,  —  "  Here  there  is  no  deceit !  "  —  I  am  not  that 
man ! 

Damas  [aside  to  Melnotte].  Thou  art  a  noble  fellow,  not- 
withstanding ;  and  wouldst  make  an  excellent  soldier.  Serve  in 
my  regiment.  I  have  had  a  letter  from  the  Directory  —  our 
young  general  takes  the  command  of  the  army  in  Italy,1 —  I  am 
to  join  him  at  Marseilles,  —  I  will  depart  this  day,  if  thou  wilt  go 
with  me. 

Mel.  It  is  the  favour  I  would  have  asked  thee,  if  I  dared. 
Place  me  wherever  a  foe  is  most  dreaded,  —  wherever  France 
most  needs  a  life  ! 

Damas.     There  shall  not  be  a  forlorn  hope  without  thee  ! 

Mel.  There  is  my  hand  !  —  Mother,  your  blessing.  I  shall 
see  you  again,  —  a  better  man  than  a  prince,  — a  man  who  has 
bought  the  right  to  high  thoughts  by  brave  deeds.     And  thou  ! 

—  thou  !  so  wildly  worshipped,  so  guiltily  betrayed,  —  all  is  not 
yet  lost !  —  for  thy  memory,  at  least,  must  be  mine  till  death  ! 
If  I  live,  the  name  of  him  thou  hast  once  loved  shall  not  rest 
dishonoured  ;  —  if  I  fall,  amidst  the  carnage  and  the  roar  of  bat- 
tle, my  soul  will  fly  back  to  thee,  and  love  shall  share  with  death 
my  last  sigh  ! —     More  —  more  would   I   speak  to  thee  !  —  to 


l  Napoleon  received  command  of  the  army  in  Italy  early  in  1796  and  set 
out  from  Paris  in  March. 

49 


422  BULWER-L-riTON.  [act  v. 

pray!  —  to  bless!  But  no; — when  I  am  less  unworthy  I  will 
utter  it  to  Heaven! — I  cannot  trust  myself  to — [Turning  to 
Deschappelles.]  Your  pardon,  sir ;  —  they  are  my  last  words 
—     Farewell !  [Exit. 

Damas.  I  will  go  after  him.  —  France  will  thank  me  for 
this.  [Exit. 

Pauline  [starting  from  her  father's  arms\  Claude  !  — 
Claude  !  —  my  husband  ! 

M.  Deschap.     You  have  a  father  still ! 


ACT   V. 

(Two  years  and  a  half  from  the  date  of  Act  IV.). 

Scene    I.  —  The  Streets  of  Lyons. 

Enter  First,  Second,  and  Third  Officers. 

First  Officer.  Well,  here  we  are  at  Lyons,  with  gallant  old 
Damas:  it  is  his  native  place. 

Second  Officer.  Yes  ;  he  has  gained  a  step  in  the  army  since 
he  was  here  last.  The  Lyonnese  ought  to  be  very  proud  of 
stout  General  Damas. 

Third  Officer.  Promotion  is  quick  in  the  French  army.  This 
mysterious  Morier,  —  the  hero  of  Lodi,1  and  the  favourite  of  the 
commander-in-chief,  —  has  risen  to  a  colonel's  rank  in  two  years 
and  a  half. 

Enter  Damas,  as  a  General. 

Damas.  Good  morrow,  gentlemen  ;  I  hope  you  will  amuse 
yourselves  during  our  short  stay  at  Lyons.  It  is  a  fine  city: 
improved  since  I  left  it.  Ah  !  it  is  a  pleasure  to  grow  old,  — 
when  the  years  that  bring  decay  to  ourselves  do  but  ripen  the 
prosperity  of  our  country.     You  have  not  met  with  Morier? 

First  Officer.     No  :  we  were  just  speaking  of  him. 

Second  Officer.  Pray,  general,  can  you  tell  us  who  this 
Morier  really  is? 


1  The  bridge  at  Lodi,  Italy  was  forced  by  Napoleon  on  May  10,  1796. 
50 


& 


scene  i.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  423 

Damas.     Is  !  —  why  a  colonel  in  the  French  army. 

Third  Officer.     True.      But  what  was  he  at  first? 

Damas.     At  first?     Why  a  baby  in  long  clothes,  I  suppose. 

First  Officer.     Ha,  ha  !     Ever  facetious,  general. 

Second  Officer  [to  Third].  The  general  is  sore  upon 
this  point  ;  you  will  only  chafe  him.  —  Any  commands, 
general  ? 

Damas.     None.     Good  day  to  you. 

[Exeunt  Second  and  Third  Officers. 

Damas.  Our  comrades  are  very  inquisitive.  Poor  Morier  is 
the  subject  of  a  vast  deal  of  curiosity. 

First  Officer.  Say  interest,  rather,  general.  His  constant 
melancholy,  the  loneliness  of  his  habits,  —  Ids  daring  valour, 
his  brilliant  rise  in  the  profession,  —  your  friendship,  and  the 
favours  of  the  commander-in-chief,  —  all  tend  to  make  him  as 
much  the  matter  of  gossip  as  of  admiration.  But  where  is  he, 
general?     I  have  missed  him  all  the  morning. 

Damas.  Why,  captain,  I'll  let  you  into  a  secret.  My 
young  friend  has  come  with  me  to  Lyons  in  hopes  of  finding  a 
miracle. 

First  Officer.     A  miracle  ! 

Damas.  Yes,  a  miracle !  in  other  words,  —  a  constant 
woman. 

First  Officer.     Oh  !  an  affair  of  love  ! 

Damas.  Exactly  so.  No  sooner  did  he  enter  Lyons  than  he 
waved  his  hand  to  me,  threw  himself  from  his  horse,  and  is 
now,  I  warrant,  asking  every  one  who  can  know  anything 
about  the  matter,  whether  a  certain  lady  is  still  true  to  a  certain 
gentleman  ! 

First  Officer.  Success  to  him  !  —  and  of  that  success  there 
can  be  no  doubt.  The  gallant  Colonel  Morier,  the  hero  of 
Lodi,  might  make  his  choice  out  of  the  proudest  families  in 
France. 

Damas.  Oh,  if  pride  be  a  recommendation,  the  lady  and  her 
mother  are  most  handsomely  endowed.  By  the  way,  captain,  if 
you  should  chance  to  meet  with  Morier,  tell  him  he  will  find  me 
at  the  hotel. 

First  Officer.      I  will,  general.  [Exit. 

Damas.     Now  will  I  goto  the  Deschappelles,  and  make  a  re- 
s' 


424  BULWER-LYTTON.  [act  v. 

port  to  my  young  Colonel.     Ha!  by   Mars,  Bacchus,  Apollo, 
Virorum,1 —  here  comes  Monsieur  Beauseant! 

Enter  Beauseant. 

Good  morrow,  Monsieur  Beauseant !     How  fares  it  with  you  ? 

Bean,  [aside],  Damas!  that  is  unfortunate ; — if  the  Italian 
campaign  should  have  filled  his  pockets,  he  may  seek  to  baffle 
me  in  the  moment  of  my  victory.  [Aloud.]  Your  servant,  gen- 
eral, —  for  such,  I  think,  is  your  new  distinction  !  Just  arrived 
in  Lyons  ? 

Damns.  Not  an  hour  ago.  Well,  how  go  on  the  Des- 
chappelles  ?  Have  they  forgiven  you  in  that  affair  of  young 
Melnotte  ?     You  had  some  hand  in  that  notable  device,  —  eh  ? 

Beau.  Why,  less  than  you  think  for  !  The  fellow  imposed 
upon  me.  I  have  set  it  all  right  now.  What  has  become  of 
him  ?  He  could  not  have  joined  the  army,  after  all.  There  is 
no  such  name  in  the  books. 

Damas.  I  know  nothing  about  Melnotte.  As  you  say,  I 
never  heard  the  name  in  the  Grand  Army.2 

Beau.     Hem  !  —      You  are  not  married,  general  ? 

Damas.  Do  I  look  like  a  married  man,  sir? —  No,  thank 
Heaven!     Mv  profession  is  to  make  widows,  not  wives. 

Beau.  You  must  have  gained  much  booty  in  Italy  !  Pauline 
will  be  your  heiress  —  eh  ? 

Damas.  Booty!  Not  I!  Heiress  to  what?  Two  trunks 
and  a  portmanteau,  —  four  horses,  —  three  swords,  — two  suits 
of  regimentals,  and  six  pair  of  white  leather  inexpressibles  !  A 
pretty  fortune  for  a  young  lady ! 

Beau,  [aside'].  Then  all  is  safe!  [Aloud.]  Ha  !  ha !  Is 
that  really  all  your  capital,  General  Damas  ?  Why,  I  thought 
Italy  had  been  a  second  Mexico3  to  you  soldiers. 

1  Damas  is  absurdly  quoting  from  the  rule  for  the  masculine  gender  in  the 
Eton  Latin  Grammar  : 

"  Propria  qua?  maribus  tribuuntur,  mascula  dicas ; 
Ut  sunt  Divorum  ;  Mars,  Bacchus,  Apollo  :  Virorum  ; 
Ut,  Cato,  Virgilius  :  Fluviorum  ;  ut,  Tibris,  Orontes  : 
Mensium  ;  ut,  October  :  Ventorum  ;  ut,  Libs,  Notus,  Auster." 

2  The  name  La  Grande  Arm'ce  was  given  later  to  Napoleon's  army  in 
Russia,  never  to  the  army  in  Italy. 

3  Referring  to  the  rich  silver  mines  of  Mexico.     Compare  Richelieu,  III.,  i. 

52 


scene  i.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  425 

. — ■ * ' — ■ — ■ — — — — — . ■  .     ■        ■-.■■-      i.  -■-  .  .  — -  t   ■■ 

Damns.  All  a  toss-up,  sir.  I  was  not  one  of  the  lucky  ones  ! 
My  friend  Morier,  indeed,  saved  something  handsome.  But 
our  commander-in-chief  took  care  of  him,  and  Morier  is  a  thrifty, 
economical  dog,  —  not  like  the  rest  of  us  soldiers,  who  spend 
our  money  as  carelessly  as  if  it  were  our  blood. 

Beau.  Well,  it  is  no  matter !  I  do  not  want  fortune  with 
Pauline.  And  you  must  know,  General  Damas,  that  your  fair 
cousin  has  at  length  consented  to  reward  my  long  and  ardent 
attachment. 

Damas.  You  !  —  the  devil !  Why,  she  is  already  married  ! 
There  is  no  divorce  ! 

Bean.  True ;  but  this  very  day  she  is  formally  to  authorize 
the  necessary  proceedings,  —  this  very  day  she  is  to  sign  the 
contract  that  is  to  make  her  mine  within  one  week  from  the  day 
on  which  her  present  illegal  marriage  is  annulled. 

Damas.  You  tell  me  wonders  !  —  Wonders  !  No  ;  I  believe 
anything  of  women ! 

Beau.     I  must  wish  you  good  morning. 

As  he  is  going,  enter  Deschappelles. 

M.  Deschap.  Oh,  Beauseant !  well  met.  Let  us  come  to 
the  notary  at  once. 

Damas  [to  Deschappelles].     Why,  cousin  ! 

M.  Deschap.  Damas,  welcome  to  Lyons.  Pray  call  on  us ; 
my  wife  will  be  delighted  to  see  you. 

Damas.  Your  wife  be  —  blessed  for  her  condescension  !  But 
[taking  him  aside]  what  do  I  hear?  Is  it  possible  that  your 
daughter  has  consented  to  a  divorce  — that  she  will  marry 
Monsieur  Beauseant  ? 

M.  Deschap.  Certainly  !  What  have  you  to  say  against  it ! 
A  gentleman  of  birth,  fortune,  character.  We  are  not  so  proud 
as  we  were ;  even  my  wife  has  had  enough  of  nobility  and 
princes  ! 

Damas.     But  Pauline  loved  that  young  man  so  tenderly ! 

M.  Deschap.  [taking  snuff  \  That  was  two  years  and  a  half 
ago! 

Damas.     Very  true.     Poor  Melnotte ! 

M.  Deschap.  But  do  not  talk  of  that  impostor;  I  hope  he  is 
dead  or  has  left  the  country.     Nay,  even  were  he  in  Lyons  at 

S3 


426  BUL  WER-L  YTTON.  [act  v. 

this  moment,  he  ought  to  rejoice  that,  in  an  honourable  and 
suitable  alliance,  my  daughter  may  forget  her  sufferings  and  his 
crime. 

Damas.  Nay,  if  it.  be  all  settled,  I  have  no  more  to  say. 
Monsieur  Beauseant  informs  me  that  the  contract  is  to  be  signed 
this  very  day. 

M.  Deschap.  It  is;  at  one  o'clock  precisely.  Will  you  be 
one  of  the  witnesses  ? 

Damas.  I  ? —  No;  that  is  to  say  —  yes,  certainly!  —  at  one 
o'clock  I  will  wait  on  you. 

M.  Deschap.     Till  then,  adieu  —  come,  Beauseant. 

[Exeunt  Beauseant  and  Deschappelles. 

Damas.     The  man  who  sets  his  heart  upon  a  woman 
Is  a  chameleon,  and  doth  feed  on  air; 
From  air  he  takes  his  colours  —  holds  his  life, — 
Changes  with  every  wind, —  grows  lean  or  fat, 
Rosy  with  hope,  or  green  with  jealousy, 
Or  pallid  with  despair  —  just  as  the  gale 
Varies  from  north  to  south  —  from  heat  to  cold  ! 
Oh,  woman  !  woman  !  thou  shouldst  have  few  sins 
Of  thine  own  to  answer  for  !     Thou  art  the  author 
Of  such  a  book  of  follies  in  a  man, 
That  it  would  need  the  tears  of  all  the  angels 
To  blot  the  record  out ! 

Enter  Melnotte,  pale  and  agitated. 

I  need  not  tell  thee  !     Thou  hast  heard  — 
Mel,  The  worst ! 

I  have ! 

Damas.     Be  cheer'd ;  others  are  fair  as  she  is  ! 

Mel.     Others  !  —     The  world  is  crumbled  at  my  feet ! 
She  was  my  world  ;  fill'd  up  the  whole  of  being  — 
Smiled  in  the  sunshine  —  walk'd  the  glorious  earth  — 
Sate  in  my  heart  —  was  the  sweet  life  of  life. 
The  Past  was  hers  ;  I  dreamt  not  of  a  Future 
That  did  not  wear  her  shape  !     Mem'ry  and  Hope 
Alike  are  gone.     Pauline  is  faithless  !     Henceforth 
The  universal  space  is  desolate  ! 

Damas.  Hope  yet. 

S4 


scene  i.]  THE   LADY  OF  LYONS.  4?7 


Mel.     Hope,  yes !  —  one  hope  is  left  me  still  — 
A  soldier's  grave !     Glory  has  died  with  love. 
I  look  into  my  heart,  and,  where  I  saw 

Pauline,  see  Death  !    [After  a  pause].  —  But  am  I  not  deceived  ? 
I  went  but  by  the  rumour  of  the  town  ; 
Rumour  is  false,  —  I  was  too  hasty  !     Damas, 
Whom  hast  thou  seen  ? 

Damas.  Thy  rival  and  her  father. 

Arm  thyself  for  the  truth.  —     He  heeds  not  — 

Mel.  She 

Will  never  know  how  deeply  she  was  loved  ! 
The  charitable  night,  that  wont  to  bring 
Comfort  to  day,  in  bright  and  eloquent  dreams, 
Is  henceforth  leagued  with  misery !     Sleep,  farewell, 
Or  else  become  eternal !     Oh,  the  waking 
From  false  oblivion,  and  to  see  the  sun, 
And  know  she  is  another's!  — 

Damas.  Be  a  man ! 

Mel.     I  am  a  man  !  —  it  is  the  sting  of  woe 
Like  mine  that  tells  us  we  are  men  ! 

Damas.  The  false  one 

Did  not  deserve  thee. 

Mel.  Hush  !  —  No  word  against  her! 

Why  should  she  keep,  through  years  and  silent  absence, 
The  holy  tablets  of  her  virgin  faith 
True  to  a  traitor's  name  !     Oh,  blame  her  not ; 
It  were  a  sharper  grief  to  think  her  worthless 
Than  to  be  what  I  am !     To-day,  —  to-day  ! 
They  said  "  To-day  !  "     This  day,  so  wildly  welcomed  — 
This  day,  my  soul  had  singled  out  of  time 
And  mark'd  for  bliss  !     This  day  !  oh,  could  I  see  her, 
See  her  once  more  unknown  ;  but  hear  her  voice, 
So  that  one  echo  of  its  music  might 
Make  ruin  less  appalling  in  its  silence. 

Damas,     Easily  done  !     Come  with  me  to  her  house; 
Your  dress  —  your  cloak  —  moustache  —  the  bronzed  hues 
Of  time  and  toil  — the  name  you  bear —  belief 
In  your  absence,  all  will  ward  away  suspicion. 
Keep  in  the  shade.     Ay,  I  would  have  you  come. 

ss 


428  BUL  WER-L  YTTON. 


[ACT 


There  may  be  hope !     Pauline  is  yet  so  young, 
They  may  have  forced  her  to. these  second  bridals 
Out  of  mistaken  love. 

Mel.  No,  bid  me  hope  not ! 

Bid  me  not  hope  !     I  could  not  bear  again 
To  fall  from  such  a  heaven !     One  gleam  of  sunshine, 
And  the  ice  breaks  and  I  am  lost !     Oh,  Damas, 
There's  no  such  thing  as  courage  in  a  man  ; 
The  veriest  slave  that  ever  crawl'd  from  danger 
Might  spurn  me  now.     When  first  I  lost  her,  Damas, 
I  bore  it,  did  I  not  ?     I  still  had  hope, 
And  now  I  —  I  —  [Bursts  into  an  agony  of  grief . 

Damas.  What,  comrade  !  all  the  women 

That  ever  smiled  destruction  on  brave  hearts 
Were  not  worth  tears  like  these  ! 

Mel.  'Tis  past  —  forget  it. 

I  am  prepared  ;  life  has  no  further  ills ! 
The  cloud  has  broken  in  that  stormy  rain, 
And  on  the  waste  I  stand,  alone  with  Heaven. 

Dan/as.  His  very  face  is  changed;  a  breaking  heart 
Does  its  work  soon  !  —  Come,  Melnotte,  rouse  thyself: 
One  effort  more.     Again  thou'lt  see  her. 

Mel.  See  her! 

There  is  a  passion  in  that  simple  sentence 
That  shivers  all  the  pride  and  power  of  reason 
Into  a  chaos  1 

Damas.  Time  wanes ;  —  come,  ere  yet 

It  be  too  late. 

Mel.  Terrible  words  —  "  Too  late  !  " 

Lead  on.     One  last  look  more,  and  then  — 

Damas.  Forget  her! 

Mel.    Forget  her,  yes  !  —  For  death  remembers  not.   [Exeunt. 

Scene  II. — A  room  in  the  house  of  Monsieur  Deschap- 
pelles  ;  Pauline  seated  in  great  dejection. 

Pauline.     It  is  so,  then.     I  must  be  false  to  Love, 
Or  sacrifice  a  father  !     Oh,  my  Claude, 
My  lover,  and  my  husband !     Have  I  lived 
56 


scene  ii.]  THE   LADY  OF  LYONS.  4^9 

To  pray  that  thou  mayst  find  some  fairer  boon 
Than  the  deep  faith  of  this  devoted  heart, — 
•Nourished  till  now  —  now  broken? 

Enter  Monsieur  Deschappelles. 

M.  Deschap.  My  clear  child, 

How  shall  I  thank  —  how  bless  thee  ?     Thou  hast  saved, 
I  will  not  say  my  fortune  —  I  could  bear 
Reverse,  and  shrink  not  —  but  that  prouder  wealth 
Which  merchants  value  most  —  my  name,  my  credit  — 
The  hard-won  honours  of  a  toilsome  life  :  — 
These  thou  hast  saved,  my  child ! 

Pauline.  Is  there  no  hope? 

No  hope  but  this? 

M.  Deschap.  None.     If,  without  the  sum 

Which  Beauseant  offers  for  thy  hand,  this  day 
Sinks  to  the  west  —  to-morrow  brings  our  ruin  ! 
And  hundreds,  mingled  in  that  ruin,  curse 
The  bankrupt  merchant !  and  the  insolent  herd 
We  feasted  and  made  merry  cry  in  scorn, 
"  How  pride  has  fallen  !  —     Lo,  the  bankrupt  merchant !  " 
My  daughter,  thou  hast  saved  us  ! 

Pauline.  And  am  lost ! 

M.  Deschap.     Come,  let  me  hope  that  Beauseant's  love  — 

Pauline.  His  love! 

Talk  not  of  love.     Love  has  no  thought  of  self  I1 
Love  buys  not  with  the  ruthless  usurer's  gold 
The  loathsome  prostitution  of  a  hand 
Without  a  heart !     Love  sacrifices  all  things 
To  bless  the  thing  it  loves  !     He  knows  not  love. 
Father,  his  love  is  hate  —  his  hope  revenge  ! 
My  tears,  my  anguish,  my  remorse  for  falsehood  — 
These  are  the  joys  that  he  wrings  from  our  despair! 


1  "  Und  was  ist  reine  Liebe  ? 
Die  ihrer  sclbst  vergisst." 

Friedrich  Halm. 

"  Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might ; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in  music  out  of  sight." 

Tennyson,  Locksley  Hall,  33-4. 
57 


430  BULWER-LYTTON.  [act  v. 

M.  Deschap.     If  thou  deem'st  thus,  reject  him!     Shame  and 
ruin 
Were  better  than  thy  misery  ;  —  think  no  more  on't. 
My  sand  is  well-nigh  run  —  what  boots  it  when 
The  glass  is  broken  ?     We'll  annul  the  contract : 
And  if  to-morrow  in  the  prisoners  cell 
These  aged  limbs  are  laid,  why  still,  my  child, 
I'll  think  thou  art  spared;  and  wait  the  Liberal  Hour 
That  lays  the  beggar  by  the  side  of  kings ! 

Pauline.       No  —  no  —  forgive     me  !      You,     my    honour'd 
father,  — 
You,  who  so  loved,  so  cherish'd  me,  whose  lips 
Never  knew  one  harsh  word  !     I'm  not  ungrateful ; 
I  am  but  human  !  —  hush  !     Now,  call  the  bridegroom  — 
You  see  I  am  prepared  —  no  tears  —  all  calm; 
But,  father,  talk  no  more  of  love  ! 

M.  Deschap.  My  child, 

'Tis  but  one  struggle ;  he  is  young,  rich,  noble ; 
Thy  state  will  rank  first  'mid  the  dames  of  Lyons ; 
And  when  this  heart  can  shelter  thee  no  more, 
Thy  youth  will  not  be  guardianless. 

Pauline.  I  have  set 

My  foot  upon  the  ploughshare  —  I  will  pass 
The  fiery  ordeal.1  [Aside.]   Merciful  Heaven,  support  me ! 
And  on  the  absent  wanderer  shed  the  light 
Of  happier  stars  —  lost  evermore  to  me  ! 

Enter  Madame   Deschappelles,  Beauseant,  Glavis,  and 

Notary. 

Mme.  Deschap.  Why,  Pauline,  you  are  quite  in  deshabille* 
—  you  ought  to  be  more  alive  to  the  importance  of  this  joyful 
occasion.  We  had  once  looked  higher,  it  is  true ;  but  you  see, 
after  all,  Monsieur  Beauseant's  father  was  a  Marquis,  and 
that's   a  great   comfort.      Pedigree  and  jointure !  — you   have 

1  The  figure  is  drawn  from  the  old  ordeal  of  walking  over  red-hot  plough- 
shares.    Compare  Bulwer's  Money,  II.,  iv. : 

"I  would  lay  this  hand  upon  the  block  — I  would  walk  barefoot  over  the 
ploughshare  of  the  old  ordeal  —  to  save  Alfred  Evelyn  one  moment's  pain." 

2  Undress,  negligee. 

c8 


scene  ii.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.  43 1 

them  both  in  Monsieur  Beauseant.  A  young  lady  decorously 
brought  up  should  only  have  two  considerations  in  her  choice 
of  a  husband  :  first,  is  his  birth  honourable  ?  secondly,  will  his 
death  be  advantageous  ?  All  other  trifling  details  should  be 
left  to  parental  anxiety. 

Beau,  [approaching  and  waving  aside  Madame].  Ah, 
Pauline !  let  me  hope  that  you  are  reconciled  to  an  event 
which  confers  such  rapture  upon  me. 

Pauline.     I  am  reconciled  to  my  doom. 

Beau.     Doom  is  a  harsh  word,  sweet  lady. 

Pauline  [aside].  This  man  must  have  some  mercy  —  his 
heart  cannot  be  marble.  [Aloud.]  Oh,  sir,  be  just  —  be  gen- 
erous !  Seize  a  noble  triumph  —  a  great  revenge  !  Save  the 
father,  and  spare  the  child. 

Beau,  [aside].  Joy  —  joy  alike  to  my  hatred  and  my  pas- 
sion !  The  haughty  Pauline  is  at  last  my  suppliant.  [Aloud.] 
You  ask  from  me  what  I  have  not  the  sublime  virtue  to  grant  — 
a  virtue  reserved  only  for  the  gardener's  son  !  I  cannot  forego 
my  hopes  in  the  moment  of  their  fulfilment !  I  adhere  to  the 
contract  —  your  father's  ruin  or  your  hand. 

Pauline.     Then  all  is  over.1     Sir,  I  have  decided. 

[  The  clock  strikes  one. 

Enter  Damas  and  Melnotte. 

Damas.  Your  servant,  cousin  Deschappelles.  Let  me  intro- 
duce Colonel  Morier. 

Mme.  Dcschap.  [curtsying  very  low].  What,  the  cele- 
brated hero  ?     This  is,  indeed,  an  honour  ! 

[Melnotte  bows,  and  remains  in  the  background. 

Damas  [to  Pauline].  My  little  cousin,  I  congratulate  you. 
What,  no  smile  —  no  blush  ?  You  are  going  to  be  divorced 
from  poor  Melnotte,  and  marry  this  rich  gentleman.  You 
ought  to  be  excessively  happy  ! 

Pauline.     Happy  ! 

Damas.  Why,  how  pale  you  are,  child  !  —  Poor  Pauline  1 
Hist  —  confide  in  me !     Do  they  force  you  to  this  ? 

Pauline.     No ! 


Compare  the  situation  with  that  in  Tennyson's  Flight. 


432  BULU rER-L YTTON.  [ A ct  v. 

Damns.  You  act  with  your  own  free  consent  ? 
Pauline.     My  own  consent  —  yes. 

Damas.  Then  you  are  the  most  —  I  will  not  say  what  you 
are. 

Pauline.  You  think  ill  of  me  —  be  it  so  —  yet  if  you  knew 
all  — 

Damas.  There  is  some  mystery  —  speak  out,  Pauline. 
Pauline  {suddenly}.  Oh,  perhaps  you  can  save  me!  you 
are  our  relation  — our  friend.  My  father  is  on  the  verge  of 
bankruptcy  —  this  day  he  requires  a  large  sum  to  meet  demands 
that  cannot  be  denied  ;  that  sum  Beauseant  will  advance  —  tin's 
hand  the  condition  of  the  barter.  Save  me  if  you  have  the 
means  —  save  me  !     You  will  be  repaid  above  ! 

Damas  [aside].  I  recant  —  Women  are  not  so  bad  after 
all !  [Aloud.]  Humph,  child  !  I  cannot  help  you  —  I  am  too 
poor. 

Pauline.     The  last  plank  to  which  I  clung  is  shivered. 
Damas.     Hold  —you  see  my  friend  Morier:  Melnotte  is  his 
most  intimate  friend  —  fought  in  the  same  fields  — slept  in  the 
same  tent.     Have  you  any  message  to  send  to  Melnotte  ?  any 
word  to  soften  this  blow? 

Pauline.  He  knows  Melnotte  —  he  will  see  him  —  he  will 
bear  to  him  my  last  farewell  —  [Approaches  Melnotte.]  — 
He  has  a  stern  air  —  he  turns  away  from  me  —  he  despises 
me !  —     Sir,  one  word  I  beseech  you. 

Mel.     Her  voice  again  !     How  the  old  time  comes  o'er  me  ! 
Damas  [to  Madame].     Don't  interrupt  them.     He  is  going 
to  tell  her  what  a  rascal  young  Melnotte  is ;  he  knows  him  well, 
I  promise  you. 
Mme.  Deschap.     So  considerate  in  you,  cousin  Damas! 

[Damas  approaches  Deschappelles  ;  converses  apart 
with  hi/u  in  dumb  show —  Deschappelles  shows 
him  a  paper;  which  he  inspects  and  takes. 
Pauline.     Thrice  have  I  sought  to  speak;  my  courage  fails 
me.  — 
Sir,  is  it  true  that  you  have  known  —  nay,  are 
The  friend  of — Melnotte? 

Mel.  Lady,  yes !  —     Myself 

And  misery  know  the  man  1 
60 


scene  II.]  THE  LADY  OF  LYOXS.  433 

Pauline.  And  you  will  see  him, 

And  you  will  bear  to  him  —  ay  —  word  for  word, 
All  that  this  heart,  which  breaks  in  parting  from  him, 
Would  send,  ere  still  for  ever  ? 

Mel.  He  hath  told  me 

You  have  the  right  to  choose  from  out  the  world 
A  worthier  bridegroom  ;  —  he  foregoes  all  claim, 
Even  to  murmur  at  his  doom.     Speak  on ! 

Pauline.     Tell  him,  for  years  I  never  nursed  a  thought 
That  was  not  his;  —  that  on  his  wandering  way, 
Daily  and  nightly,  poured  a  mourner's  prayers. 
Tell  him  ev'n  now  that  I  would  rather  share 
His  lowliest  lot,  — walk  by  his  side,  an  outcast,  — 
Work  for  him,  beg  with  him,  —  live  upon  the  light 
Of  one  kind  smile  from  him,  —  than  wear  the  crown 
The  Bourbon1  lost  ! 

Mel.  [aside].  Am  I  already  mad  ? 

And  does  delirium  utter  such  sweet  words 
Into  a  dreamer's  ear  ?     [Aloud.]     You  love  him  thus, 
And  yet  desert  him  ? 

Pauline.  Say,  that,  if  his  eye 

Could  read  this  heart,  —  its  struggles,  its  temptations,  — 
His  love  itself  would  pardon  that  desertion  ! 
Look  on  that  poor  old  man,  —  he  is  my  father; 
He  stands  upon  the  verge  of  an  abyss!  — 
He  calls  his  child  to  save  him  !     Shall  I  shrink 
From  him  who  gave  me  birth  ?  —  withhold  my  hand, 
And  see  a  parent  perish  ?     Tell  him  this, 
And  say  —  that  we  shall  meet  again  in  Heaven  ! 

Mel     Lady  —  I  —  I  —  what  is  this  riddle  ?  —  what 
The  nature  of  this  sacrifice? 

Pauline  [pointing  to  Damas].     Go,  ask  him  ! 

Beau,  [from  the  table].     The  papers  are  prepared  —  we  only 
need 
Your  hand  and  seal. 

Mel.  Stay,  lady  —  one  word  more. 

Were  but  your  duty  with  your  faith  united, 
Would  you  still  share  the  low-born  peasant's  lot  ? 

1  Louis  XVJ.,  beheaded  January  21,  1795. 

28  61 


434  BULWER-LYTTON.  [act  v. 


Pauline.     Would  I  ?     Ah.  better  death  with  him  I  love 
Than  all  the  pomp  —  which  is  but  as  the  flowers 
That  crown  the  victim  !  —  [Turning  away.~\     I  am  ready. 

[Melnotte  rushes  to  Damas. 

Damas.  There  — 

This  is  the  schedule  —  this  the  total. 

Beau,  [to  Deschappelles,  showing  notes'].     These 
Are  yours  the  instant  she  has  signed  ;  you  are 
Still  the  great  House  of  Lyons  ! 

[  The  Notary  is  about  to  hand  the  contract  to  Pauline, 
when  Melxotte  seizes  it  and  tears  it. 

Beau.  Are  you  mad? 

M.  Deschap.     How,  sir  !     What  means  this  insult  ? 

Mel.  Peace,  old  man  ! 

I  have  a  prior  claim.     Before  the  face 
Of  man  and  Heaven  I  urge  it ;   I  outbid 
Yon  sordid  huckster  for  your  priceless  jewel. 

[Giving  a  pockct-oook. 
There  is  the  sum  twice  told  !     Blush  not  to  take  it: 
There's  not  a  coin  that  is  not  bought  and  hallow'd 
In  the  cause  of  nations  with  a  soldier's  blood  ! 

Beau.     Torments  and  death .' 

Pauline.  That  voice  !  Thou  art  — 

Mel.  Thy  husband  ! 

[Pauline  rushes  into  his  arms. 
Look  up  !     Look  up,  Pauline  !  —  for  I  can  bear 
Thine  eyes !     The  stain  is  blotted  from  my  name. 
I  have  redeem'd  mine  honour.    .1  can  call 
On  France  to  sanction  thy  divine  forgiveness  ! 
Oh,  joy  !  —  Oh,  rapture  !     By  the  midnight  watchfires 
Thus  have  I  seen  thee  !  thus  foretold  this  hour ! 
And  'midst  the  roar  of  battle,  thus  have  heard 
The  beating  of  thy  heart  against  my  own ! 

Beau.     Fool'd,  duped,  and  triumph'd  over  in  the  hour 
Of  mine  own  victory  !     Curses  on  ye  both  ! 
May  thorns  be  planted  in  the  marriage-bed ! 
And  love  grow  sour'd  and  blacken'd  into  hate  — 
Such  as  the  hate  that  gnaws  me  ! 

Damas.  Curse  away ! 

6a 


scene  ii.]  THE   LADY  OF  LYONS.  435 

And  let  me  tell  thee,  Beauseant,  a  wise  proverb 
The  Arabs  have,  —  "  Curses  are  like  young  chickens, 
[Solemnly.]     And  still  come  home  to  roost !  "  1 

Beau.  Their  happiness 

Maddens  my  soul !     I  am  powerless  and  revengeless! 

[To  Madame. 
1  wish  you  joy  !     Ha  !  ha  !  the  gardener's  son  !  [Exit. 

Damns  [to  Glavis].     Your  friend  intends  to  hang  himself  1 
Methinks 
You  ought  to  be  his  travelling  companion ! 

Gla.     Sir,  you  are  exceedingly  obliging  !  [Exit. 

Pauline.  Oh  ! 

My  father,  you  are  saved,  —  and  by  my  husband  ! 
Ah,  blessed  hour  ! 

Mel.  Yet  you  weep  still,  Pauline  ! 

Pauline.     But  on  thy  breast !  —  these   tears  are  sweet  and 
holy  ! 

M.  Deschap.     You  have  won  love  and  honour  nobly,  sir ! 
Take  her  !  —  be  happy  both  ! 

Mine.  Deschap.  I'm  all  astonish'd  ! 

Who,  then,  is  Colonel  Morier  ? 

Damas.  You  behold  him  ! 

Mel.      Morier  no  more  after  this  happy  day! 
I  would  not  bear  again  my  father's  name 
Till  I  could  deem  it  spotless  !     The  hour's  come  ! 
Heaven  smiled  on  conscience  !     As  the  soldier  rose 
From  rank  to  rank,  how  sacred  was  the  fame 
That  cancell'd  crime,  and  raised  him  nearer  thee ! 


> 


1  I  do  not  know  that  Damas  was  serious  in  ascribing  this  proverb  to  tin 
Arabs.  I  have  not  been  able  to  trace  it  to  an  Arabic  origin.  It  occurs  how 
ever  in  a  variety  of  forms  in  the  European  languages: 

"  De  vloek  keert  weder  in  zijn'  eigen  hoek." 

"  Der  Fluch  hat  einen  guten  Sinn  ; 
Wo  er  ausfahrt,  da  fahrt  er  wieder  hin." 

"  Der  Fluch,  der  aus  dem  Munde  dringt, 
In  die  Nase  wieder  zuriickspringt" 

1  Le  bestemmie  fanno  come  le  processioni,  ritornano  donde  partirano." 
"  But  curses  are  like  arrows  shot  upright. 
That  oftentimes  on  our  own  heads  do  light." 

6- 


<<  1 


436  BULWER-LYTTON.  [act  v, 

Mme.  Deschap.     A  colonel  and  a  hero  !     Well,  that's  some- 
thing ! 
He's  wondrously  improved  !     I  wish  you  joy,  sir! 

Mel.     Ah !  the  same  love  that  tempts  us  into  sin^ 
If  it  be  true  love,  works  out  its  redemption; 
And  he  who  seeks  repentance  for  the  Past 
Should  woo  the  Angel  Virtue  in  the  future, 


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